


Fool's Paradise

by vandoodle (orphan_account)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery Trio, Mystery Trio AU, Romance, fiddlestan, im the epitome of trash, sexual themes later on, slowburn, technically, what a beautiful day to ruin these character's lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 147,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/vandoodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a harrowing split with his now ex-wife, Fiddleford McGucket has no where to turn. He has nothing, and no one, that is, until his employer and his twin brother offer him a room at their research facility in the woods. He can deal with that. Of course, this means he'll have to face his crippling crush on Stanley Pines, try to survive the twin's supernatural shenanigans, and build an interdimensional portal. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this is the first time I've written anything for Gravity Falls, so consider me official fandom trash. The first two chapters don't really have much action, but they are necessary to understanding our characters. Plus, it will all fit nicely together in the end.
> 
> Quick note: name swap is in effect. Stanford is the Author and Stanley is the con man. Words in italics are either thoughts or emphasized. As for the timeline, for those who are wondering. This AU, branches off directly from the moment Stanley goes to call his brother in ATOTS, but this time he doesn't hang up. Fiddleford is already working for him at the time, and so starts the Mystery Trio. This fic takes place in the early 80's.

The last thing Stanford Pines expected to see on his doorstep at 3:37 AM was Fiddleford McGucket. But nonetheless, the man stood in front of his home, eyes red-rimmed and tweed coat dripping from the rain. Stanford rubbed his eyes with the heel of a palm to make sure this wasn’t some sort of wild hallucination before undoing the rusted chain. He opened the door wider, taking in the full image of the engineer before him.

“Fiddleford?” Stanford asked, a note of confusion lilting his voice, “What are you doing here at this hour? Work doesn’t start until 8.” He had expected the usual good-humored eye roll from his assistant and the snarky, insisted comeback that followed. The scientist could hardly believe it had been 6 months since he had become his assistant, or that in that time they had revitalized their old college friendship so quickly.

Fiddleford looked up solemnly, allowing Stanford to catch a glimpse of his pale face through the hair plastered against his forehead. The man had seen better days.

“She’s gone," he voiced rather plainly for his haggard condition, his southern accent clear as day.

“Laura left.”

Stanford felt pity sink like a stone deep within his stomach. He gulped, remaining silent as he side-stepped to allow Fiddleford to enter, the oak door creaking against his weight. Stanford had been there before; the man was well acquainted with rejection. He tried not to dwell too long over his failed pursuits; there were much more important matters at hand. Like getting his dumped friend back on his feet.

The engineer plopped down on the couch without his usual care, staring blankly ahead at the cabin walls. He counted the dark circles swirling against the wood, like he had so many times before in overwhelming situations. Stanley’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Can I get you something? I practically live off the coffee machine and we have some of that tea you like. It’s Lavender, right? That should warm you right up. Oh, and we’ve got food too.”

Fiddleford numbly shook his head. It wasn’t as if he had come here to blow off all of Stanford’s sympathies, he just hadn’t a clue where else he could turn. He was alone in the world, with only the clothes on his back and his dented red truck out front.

“Hey, what’s all the hubbub about?” called a gravelly voice from bottom of the stairs, reminding the engineer just _how_ lonely he was in the world. Fiddleford sat a little straighter on the couch, tensing against the vomit-green lining. He dug his nails into his arms, leaving red, crescent impressions scattered across his skin. _No,_ he couldn’t _bear_ for Stanley to see him like this. He needed to leave immediately, he needed to get away--

 _“Some people_ are trying to sle--," Stanley started, rounding into the living room, but froze at the sight of the engineer on the sofa.

“Fidds?”

Fiddleford swallowed hard at his nickname, pushing down the ball of guilt that arose in his throat.  Stanley took his seat beside the smaller man on the couch carefully as if he were something fragile. Fiddleford _felt_ fragile.

“Stanford, get him a towel or somethin’.”  

His twin nodded, rushing to the laundry room. And then they were alone. Silence sank like an anchor over the room.

Stanley placed a calloused hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer to get a better look at his face.

“Fiddleford, what happened?" Stan whispered almost inaudibly. Fiddleford bit his lip, stealing glances at the other’s wide, brown eyes. Even now, they seemed inviting. He would give anything-- _anything--_ for this kind of access: to get lost in the other’s eyes. If only he hadn’t felt like such a pitiful nuisance with that stare cutting through him like a knife.

Fiddleford cleared his throat, fearing he had been staring for far too long.

“Laura left me. Kicked me out of the house.” His speech had been reduced to simple sentences.

Stanley was silent for a minute, clenching and unclenching his hands. The engineer sat helplessly, glazed eyes following the man’s every movement. A range of emotions swept over the boxer’s face so vast that Fiddleford couldn’t begin to pinpoint one feeling from another.

“I’m going to fight her.”

Fiddleford’s head shot up, the corners of his mouth twitching at the absurdity of it all.

“What? Stanley Pines, you are _not-_ -!”

“I’m gonna do it! I, Stanley Pines, hereby take this oath to fight her for making my good friend, Fiddle _nerd_ , sad.” He raised his right hand mockingly. The man beside him couldn’t help but let out a bleat of laughter--an ugly, snorting outburst--and gently shoved his companion’s arm. The joy faded. He returned to his original demeanor.

“That’s the worst part about it…”

Stanley quirked an eyebrow at him, seriousness settling back into his tone.

“What do you mean?”

Fiddleford gave a short bitter laugh, so cold from his normal, braying one that it made Stanley wince.

“I just don’t… feel anything. I mean maybe remorse, but I’m not sad or happy either. I feel sort of,” he paused for a moment, thinking over his words carefully, “... light.”

 _I feel like she was right_ , he thought. The notion had festered during the long drive. Past the slick highway, down the dirt road, his windshield wipers swiping at the stray branches that found their way into his path; the idea had gnawed at his gut. His stomach still pulsed with a dull ache.

Stanley furrowed his brow in thought; the parallel shocking to that of his normal, impulsive attitude. If Fiddleford had been in good spirits, he would have poked fun at him, saying how he only looked this engrossed during the chick flicks he so easily got sucked into. The boxer hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees before turning his head to look at Fiddleford.

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing," Stanley concluded. It was Fiddleford’s turn to look confused.

“That woman was the devil in disguise, if I do say so myself. I think I’ve heard enough of your horror stories to judge for myself. This wasn’t the first time she’s hurt you like this," Stanley continued, Fiddleford’s blank eyes searching his unshaven face.

“All I’m sayin’ is, that can’t be healthy, Fidds. For either of you. This might be a chance to make some changes, try new things, and lick your wounds... And I think it’s a good thing that you two are out of each other’s hair, ya know?”

Fiddleford looked down at the floor, contemplating the fight.

The words she had hissed at him outside the car hadn’t exactly helped either.

_Her hand on the edge of the cracked window, she leaned over to sneer in his face._

_“You’ve been putting on this ruse for so long, I’m starting to think you’ve even fooled yourself.” Fiddleford winced, shrinking back at her harsh words. Had he only thought he loved her? Or any woman for that matter? Had he been fooling himself? It was such a confounding thing: to think you loved a woman one day and the next you’d found yourself distant from the entire gender._

_Laura had always been more of a friend than a wife in his head, now that he was looking back on it. They had grown fond enough of each other to get married, if only for tax benefits and the promise of company on lonely nights. But perhaps she has misread it as something more._

_The breakup had been mutual, but it still left him feeling raw._

He had spaced out again, getting lost in the corridors of his own mind like he so often did. Looking up, he discovered Stanley’s concerned eyes focused on him. Fiddleford felt his mouth go dry at that gaze. He found himself wondering, we’re lips supposed to look so welcoming? Maybe that would shut the larger man up.

But he was not that brave.

Stanley Pines had stolen his heart like a thief in the night and Fiddleford didn’t stand a chance at getting it back.

He clenched his fists tightly in his lap before giving a small nod.

“Yes, maybe this is a good thing.” Fiddleford fought the urge to press a hand to his chest at the sudden relief filling him.

Stanford soon came back with a large, fluffy towel. Fiddleford draped it over his damp shirt, pressing his sopping shoulders gratefully into the fabric.

“He’s going to stay here at the Shack with us," Stanley declared, locking eyes with his brother, his tone deathly serious. It was not a question. “There are plenty of rooms and he can stay on the sofa until we get him a mattress.”

“Of course. Plus, he can help me with some of my nightly experiments!” he shot Fiddleford a half joking grin, wiggling his twelve fingers in feigned malice. Stanley put an arm around his shoulders, Fiddleford fighting off a shiver as the man shouted about all the ‘fun things’ they could do now that he was here full time.

 _Oh dear_ , Fiddleford thought, pushing down his anxieties.

_What had he gotten himself into?_


	2. Insomniacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford must face his fears of fighting alone as he encounters an unknown being that has broken into their kitchen. Maybe he was just trying to find the coffee. Either way, Fiddleford isn't going down so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would go ahead and post the first chapter with the prologue, for just a taste of what we're getting into here. Also, I'm a huge cliched romantic, and I do apologize.
> 
> Name swap is in effect, italics are thoughts or emphazied words, "---"s are used for time skips.

Fiddleford leapt out of his bed when he heard the piercing sound of something shattering amidst the clutter downstairs. He clutched at his chest, looking around the room in panic. His eyes scanned from the floral patterned wallpaper (little pines trees; something that Stanford must have bought on one of his yard sale trips), to his small desk in the corner, to the white, shaggy carpeting.

 _Nothing_.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his messy blond hair. Sleep cycle damned to hell, he fumbled for his glasses on the beige, scuffed nightstand. _Was there anything in this house that wasn’t scuffed_ , he questioned as he placed the lenses on his nose, edges sharpening around his dark room.

“Get a hold of yourself, Fiddleford,” he whispered aloud, “There’s no one here but yo--” his voice died in his throat. Something smashed against the floor downstairs, muttered swears following in it’s wake.

The engineer gulped, slinging his legs off the side of the bed and stepping onto the cool floor. Fiddleford glanced at the clock: 4 AM. He inwardly cursed. Such a rude awakening for such a wonderful dream. Strong arms wrapped around him, a face pressed gently into the back of his neck--

He pushed the thought away rather reluctantly. It was death wish to let his mind wander like that, especially in this potentially perilous situation.

 _Stanford is undoubtedly passed out downstairs in the lab, if he isn’t already asleep in his own bed_ , Fiddleford thought to himself. _Stanley certainly isn’t home._ That one made him frown, hands absently mindedly wringing at the thought. The boxer had vanished after their last exploration in the dense forest, knocking on Fidds’s door at some ungodly hour of the night to inform him that he was ‘going out for a bit’ and to ‘tell Ford for him’.

The late hour left Fiddleford exhausted, giving him very little authority over his own rambling thoughts. His mind was as jumbled as one of his employer’s filing cabinets. He placed his hand on the frigid doorknob, cold metal sticking to his palm-- _God, how he wished to be back, snuggled under the blankets on his bed-_ -before twisting his wrist and opening the door.

 _Had he said something wrong?_ Fiddleford’s gut churned at the thought of that. Stanley had seemed troubled when he had broke the news to him. He wouldn’t even look him in the eye when he had told the engineer. _What was he not saying? Damn Stanley Pines, and all of his well kept secrets._

His heel grazed the shabby wood of the final stair. Fiddleford paused, holding his breath to listen more clearly. Someone or something was, without a doubt, rifling through the cabinets in the kitchen. Fiddleford clenched onto the railing tighter, fighting his urge to flee. _What if it was a burglar? Or worse, some sort of monster that had followed us back? Stanley isn’t even here to fight it off!_

The soft glow of the moon through the blinds was enough for Fiddleford to make out the couch in the darkness, and one of Stanford’s bulky research journals placed precariously upon the armrest. He picked it up, running his hand along the worn, yet smooth surface, judging the weight it had in his hands.

_Maybe I could hit ‘em with this? That would take out a few gnomes, at least._

He tried not to think of the absolute _joy_ it would bring Stanley to see him fight with a book, of all things. Or the endless taunting that would follow. Fiddleford could practically hear his voice now: ‘Just when I go and think you can’t get any nerdier, ya get nerdier!’

The engineer would have snickered to himself, but he noticed he was at the edge of the kitchen, the soft rug no longer skimming his feet. The kitchen was black as the void. He was never one for bravery, but he was the only one, either present or awake, that could do something about it. He took a shaky breath and tiptoed into the kitchen.

Taking slow, cautious steps, he dragged the tips of his fingers along the side of the counter, feeling over the bumps and splinters he had become accustomed to over the past few months since he moved in. His heart leapt to his throat, beating with intensity. He felt blind. He felt _vulnerable_.

The rustling stopped. And with it, Fiddleford swore his heart did too.

Something scurried behind him.

He whipped around--

“Boo!”

Fiddleford squeaked, swinging the book in a bout of fright, connecting with something hard.

“Ow! Holy Moses, Fidds! I was just joking!”

Fiddleford felt for the light switch. He recognized that low voice. Flipping it up, he illuminated the room. The engineer dropped the book in shock; the loud clunk it made against the tiles was almost as deafening as the strained silence that followed.

Stanley sat on the floor with a large, red, square shape outlined against his cheek, holding his nose to try and stop the heavy flow of blood that poured down his face and onto the linoleum. Fiddleford looked on, mouth open in an ‘o’, his emotions ranging from horrified, to slightly amused, to utterly embarrassed again. He leaned forward, getting a closer look at the boxer’s face.

“Stanley! What the hell? You shouldn’t have scared me like that! I-I thought you were a gremloblin, or- or a bunch of gnomes!”

Stanley pulled himself up, anchoring a hand onto the smaller man. Fiddleford almost crumpled to the floor under his weight. He wanted desperately to disappear, to slink into some dark corner where no one would ever find him again.

“So you tried to fight me off with,” his eyes flickered to the research journal, eyebrows raising, “a book

_Aaaand here it comes._

Stanley laughed, a deep, booming laugh that made his chest vibrate. And he continued to do this, all the way to the living room, and long after he had taken refuge on the couch. The engineer marched off, muttering under his breath as he fetched the first aid kit. Fiddleford returned, attempting to keep a stern face at his companion as he sat next to him.

“Just when I think you can’t get any nerdier, Fidds, ya get nerdier!” Stanley’s chuckles came to a halt as Fiddleford shot him a threatening scowl. Odd, this was usually the highlight of the larger man’s day: aggravating the man to the point of seething silence, waiting for an outburst when he was finally pushed over the edge. He pressed a wet washcloth to Stanley’s face, wiping the blood off his chin and lips with care.

“Did I break your nose?” Fiddleford asked stiffly, dabbing at said area.

“Nah, just some minor damage. No hospital visit tonight.”

Fiddleford grimaced and passed Stanley the washcloth.

“Use that if your nose starts bleeding again, Stanley. Other than a bruise on your cheek, I think you should be fine.” Fiddleford finished, clearing his throat and straightening his glasses. He tucked the medical kit neatly under the couch, sitting back against the cushion. The engineer found those eyes staring at him in confusion. He made an attempt to fill the silence, and to keep his knotting gut at bay.

“Where have you been for the past few days? I was starting to get worried.” He hadn’t meant to voice that last part aloud. Stanley gingerly pulled the blood-stained cloth back from his face.

“Ya know, here and there, just driving around. Casinos, bars, the likes.” Stanley shrugged, flashing the smaller man a toothy grin. Fiddleford’s heart skipped a beat. His voice died in his throat, deciding not to push it any farther. The man always knew how to avoid questions, his silver tongue getting them out of far too many situations for Fiddleford to count.

“What are _you_ doing up this late at night, Fidds?” Stan shot back, unfolding his arms and placing them across the back of the olive colored sofa.

“Me?” Fiddleford asked, incredulous. “ _I_ was asleep and having wonderful dreams until you- you woke me up with your incessant stomping around the kitchen!”

“Relax, I’m only teasing.” Stanley reached forward, tousling Fiddleford’s hair, letting his fingers linger for just a bit too long. Fiddleford begged his face not to go red like it always did so easily against his pale complexion.

“I’m sorry," The words tumbled out of Fiddleford’s mouth ungracefully and without warning. “I-I didn’t mean to hit you in the face and--”

Stanley began to laugh again, slapping a hand against his knee. Fiddleford decided that he may _never_ understand the world of Stanley Pines, and some part of him was okay with that. Perhaps it had been that factor that had drawn him in so easily. Once a scientist, always a scientist.

“Don’t be! You were just trying to protect yourself from a weird gnome-gremloblin combination monster. Gnomeloblin? Grenome? Anyways, it barely even hurt, nerd. Like being slapped with a sack of feathers," Stanley reassured him.

Fiddleford didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. He bit his lip and gave a short nod, meeting the other man’s eyes.

“Well, now that I’m definitely not going to sleep anytime soon, ya wanna watch some shitty late-night rerun movies with me until Stanford gets up?”

“I know you aren’t _the best_ at math,” Fiddleford quipped, raising his eyebrows at his companion, “but Stanford gets up in about an hour.”

“I already broke his alarm clock.” Stanley wiggled his eyebrows, earning a smile and one of those famous laughs from Fiddleford.

“It was the first thing I did when I came in, actually. The guy deserves a break every now and then so he doesn’t work himself to death. I mean, he already forgets to eat half the time! I might as well help him out a bit. And, as a bonus, we can relax and put off working for a little longer.”

“Alright. But if he comes after us, I’m blaming you," Fiddleford answered, scooting a bit closer to Stanley as the television came alive.

“Deal.”

The two sat in content silence, Fiddleford painfully aware of the spaces between them. He wanted nothing more than to fill the gap. They flipped mindlessly through the channels until they discovered the most outrageous title they could find: ‘Mutant Zombie Kitten 2: The Kittening’.

“That man’s hair _can’t_ be real.”

“It looks like he pulled whatever was left in the drain after showering and slapped it onto his head.”

“Stanley, that’s _disgusting_!”

“What?! It’s true!”

They both laughed, critiquing the atrociously bad movie.

About an hour and a half in, Fiddleford felt his eyelids become heavy. Stanley’s low voice as he gave an ‘insightful’ movie commentary about the terrible special effects was only lulling him to sleep faster. He pulled his legs up on the sofa and tucked them underneath himself before finally drifting to sleep.

\---

“Stanley! Did you _seriously_ punch my alarm clock?!” The shout sounded distant. Fiddleford nuzzled against his pillow, trying to block out the noise. “I cannot _believe_ you!”

“Shut up, you’re going to wake the nerd!” The voice was quieter, but somehow closer, almost in his ear. Fiddleford brought a hand up to his face, rubbing one of his eyes before opening them up. He recoiled, almost wishing he hadn’t.

“It’s too damn bright…” Fiddleford muttered, shutting his eyes and pulling his blanket closer. He pressed his face into his pillow, trying to block out the ray of sunlight.

“Well, good morning to you too.”

Fiddleford’s eyes shot open. That was not a _pillow_ he was comfortably nuzzling his face into, rather Stanley Pines’s chest. He felt something flex under his spine; Fiddleford fought the urge not to jolt away in surprise. An arm was wrapped loosely around him. The engineer’s stomach did a flip. He gulped and sat up cautiously, inches away from the other man’s face. Stanley raised his eyebrows, a grin spreading across his face.

“Hey.”

“H-hello,” Fiddleford said, moving back and straightening up.

“Sorry, you looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.” Stanley shrugged, “Plus, you probably would have smacked me with a book again if I had tried.” He motioned to the faint grey bruise outlining his cheekbone.

“Oh,” Fiddleford commented, clearing his throat to try to steady his rapid breaths. He looked around at the considerably blurrier room.

“Uh, where are my glasses?”

“Oh!” Stanley reached over to the small coffee table in front of them, grabbing the pair of spectacles, and handing them to Fiddleford. The engineer gave a small smile as a thanks and propped them onto his nose.

“Yeah, they fell off and onto my coat,” Stanley pointed to Fiddleford’s lap,  “in the middle of the night, so I thought I would put them up for you. Ya know, so they wouldn’t break and stuff. I learned that the hard way with Ford.”

“Coat…?” Fiddleford looked to his lap. _Oh._ His eyes locked onto the worn, red, wrinkled thing that he had been using to cover up with. The engineer felt his chest tighten as he ran his fingers absentmindedly along the downy lining.

He was playing a dangerous game by falling for Stanley Pines. It was only a matter of time before Stanley, _or his brother_ figured out Fiddleford’s increasingly odd behavior. He had tried pushing it down, deep inside of him, tried bottling up and ignoring his feelings. They only came back harder and with more intensity, sometimes slipping out of his mouth before he could even process what he was saying. Once, he had almost told Stan that he looked handsome over breakfast, only to stop shortly and excuse himself from the table.

He let his feelings come and go silently. Fiddleford couldn’t tell _a soul_ about this damned infatuation. And all of this with his employer’s _brother_. It was a wonder that he hadn’t been fired yet, or that his emotions hadn’t gotten someone killed on their dangerous escapades. He had learned to become quiet, knowing there was no way he could win this situation. Any hope or fantasies he had about confessing to Stanley were only crushed by the shocking weight of reality.

And here he was, wrapped up in _that_ coat with Stanley’s hand resting comfortably on _his_ hip. The man seemed to flip his world upside down on a regular basis and had no clue he was doing so.

Stanford stomped into the room, chesnut hair sticking out at odd angles. He was still in his pajamas: an old muscle shirt and shorts. The glasses that adorned his face sat crooked against his nose; behind them a look of exasperation lined his features.

“Great, now we’re _all_ getting a late start on work today," Stanford seethed.

“I was planning that we could do some field research today, but _I guess_ I’ll have to reschedule that too and--  _Did you break my egyptian vase_? I was studying it! That thing had a curse on it, Stanley!”

Fiddleford shifted to look at what Stanford was pointing so intensely at. Pieces of colorful ceramic littered the floor. It was a wonder that they hadn’t stepped on any last night. Or that he hadn’t even _noticed it_ until now. To be fair, he had been focused on the boxer all night.

All Stanley offered was shrug as he glanced down at his feet.

“Aren’t you going to say anything? Stanley, you can’t just go breaking _my_ things around the house!”

“Or you’ll what?” Stanley said, turning away from Fiddleford and rolling his eyes. He pulled his arm away from the engineer, leaving a cold, aching sensation on his skin. He wished he had just stayed asleep. Stanford was normally a courteous man; he would have stayed quiet if he had still been dozing.

“There will be consequences!”

“Are you going to _fire_ me?” Stanley taunted. “Throw me out of the Shack?”

Fiddleford stiffened at the earsplitting silence that followed. He knew the story. How Stanley’s father had kicked him out of the house. How Stanley had travelled around as a ‘salesman’ before hitting rock bottom after Carla left him. How he finally gave in to call his brother. How Stanford had been reluctant, but hearing the desperation in his twin’s voice made him change his mind.

Stanford glared fiercely at the two of them, opening his mouth to deliver a defeating comeback.

The twins squabbled daily, but Fiddleford always knew when to interject to keep it from becoming a fist fight or something they would come to regret.

“Boys,” he said, standing up from his snug spot on the couch.

“This argument isn’t going to get us anywhere, so I _suggest_ y’all stop trying to tear out each other’s throats.” Fiddleford shot a stern look at the both of them.

“The Doc’s right, Ford. You should stop yelling at me," Stanley said. Fiddleford elbowed him in the ribs.

Stanford pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly and counting to 3 in his head. He had never been one for apologies.

“Okay, let’s just get to work. We have a lot to do today. Fiddleford, I expect to meet you down in the lab ASAP so we can finish that schematic on our transdimensional device. Then I have some field work I would like us to do on mermaids, _if we have time_.”

Stanley’s eyes lit up as he rubbed his hands together eagerly. Fiddleford’s heart sank, knowing he would have to spend the whole day watching the larger man pine over exotic fish-women. At least they were venomous. Though it wasn’t much of a bright side, Stanley would have to keep his distance.

“Fine," Stanley said, drawing out the ‘i’ and flashing that smile that drew everyone in the room’s attention.

“But we get to eat breakfast first.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford just doesn't get a break, does he? Also, Stanford isn't normally this grumpy. It's just early in the morning and he slept an extra four hours, and for a workaholic, that's bad. 
> 
> Anyways, more chapters on the way! The next is twice as long and has100% more action and violence.


	3. Lovely, Dark, and Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost? In the woods? With menacing creatures around each corner and night rapidly falling? Sounds fun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the next chapter, and ahead of schedule! 
> 
> Trigger warning for swearing.

“I’m telling you, Fiddleford, it could change the world!”

“As if you don’t say that about _every_ project you work on.” Fiddleford grinned as he flipped down his face protector. His hands had been itching to get down to the basement and tinker with the portal.

“If I could just figure out a way to power it, we could observe things that humanity has never seen before! Ultimate knowledge!” Stanford yelled over the sparks as he watched his partner weld two curved pieces of metal together.

The portal was well underway. The design came to him rather simply, especially with the help of his brilliant engineer assistant. The man had had enough half-finished robotic scraps to almost build the entire mainframe without other materials. Especially since they had dismantled that--what was it, _“shamebot”?_ \--the man had made in a drunken stupor long ago. If only he could figure out some sort of energy source, or how exactly to set the coordinates so they ended up in safe places. It would be a tricky process, more error than trial.

The lab door opened with enough force that even Fiddleford heard the _CRACK_ as the door met the wall. Stanley stormed in, seething.

“Alright, which one of you clowns got the _hilarious_ idea to unscrew my license plate?!”

“We’ve both been down here workin’ on the portal all day,” Fiddleford called, flipping his face gear up to exchange a glance with the scientist. Stanley crossed his arms, looking between the other two.

“Well, _someone_ owes me 40 bucks for the ticket I just got.”

“Wait, you got a ticket and you didn’t try to make a daring escape from the police? Are you sick?” Stanford’s sarcasm sent Fiddleford into a fit of hushed giggles.

“Actually,” Stanley countered, shoving his car keys into his pocket, “I told Sheriff Johnson and that Deputy Blubbs of his that my idiotic brother had been in a terrible accident and I was rushing to the hospital to visit him. I even gave ‘em the water works! But they _insisted_ on giving me a ticket before I could leave.”

“I guess they just know you a little too well by now,” Fiddleford joked. Stanley rolled his eyes, but the smaller man could tell he was fighting back a smile. He pulled up a chair, settling himself next to his brother.

“Well, if one of you didn’t take it, then who did and how do we get it back? Because I’m sure as hell I’m not going to pay for a new one.”

Stanford pushed up his skewed glasses to the bridge of his nose, “Well, I mean, scientifically speaking, any sort of mischievous forest creature that likes to play tricks on humans could have stolen it. Some sort of fairy or…” he trailed off, lost in thought. “You get the point.”

“Great! Who wants to go fairy smashin’?”

“Stanley!” Fiddleford and Stanford voiced in unison.

“Geez!” Stanley called, holding up his hands, “I wasn’t really going to hurt them! Just track them down and take back what’s mine. Maybe rough ‘em up a bit. Okay, _a lot_. But it's _my car!_ ”

Stanford was quiet for a moment before he stood and began gathering his belongings.

“Might as well call it a day for the construction, Doc. But,” he added as he walked towards the lab door, shooting his brother a smile “You two wouldn’t mind going out into the forest, would you? I’ve been aching to do some field work.”

\--

Stanford had instructed them how to pack: light, in case they had to flee, but sufficient.

“Fairies are tricky, if that’s even what we’re dealing with.” Stanford had explained before he sent them off to their separate rooms on a mission. “Some are incredible at mimicking, others can cast spells... They could cause some serious hallucinations or get you completely lost.”

When he had seen the distraught looks on their faces, he quickly added, “Oh, but don’t worry. We won’t be wandering around for an eternity in our own backyard. Probably.”

But that had been hours ago. The sky was growing into a light shade of scarlet, the thin clouds wispy against the horizon.

Fiddleford’s backpack weighed heavily on him in the sweltering summer heat. With being cooped up in the lab most days, he had almost forgotten that it was the time of year he hated the most. The only good part of the trip so far was that Stanley had swapped his ratty t-shirt, jacket combo for a tank top. The view of the forest was breath-taking and astonishing, but he found himself focusing more on the _other_ mesmerizing view.

“Alright,” Stanford called, snapping him out of his daze, “that is the fifth place we’ve passed!” Stanley shot him a confused countenance before the other man elaborated. “I often leave forest markers out here, in case we get lost or swarmed or something, so we know exactly how far we are from the Shack. But so far, every last one of them is missing.”

“What, are you saying this thing likes stealing?” Stanley questioned, throwing a look of doubt to Fiddleford.

“You might just make a new friend, Stanley,” he muttered loud enough for the other man to hear him.

“Yes and no. It likes taking _signs_. And,” Stanford pointed to the ground, “There are large circular indents, almost like footprints. Not to mention all the stirred up underbrush and weird piles of moss and branches…”

“What are you gettin’ at?”

Stanford snapped his journal open, standing from his kneeling position on the forest floor. His six-fingered hand flew across the page so fast it made Fiddleford’s head spin. Or maybe that was the heat.

“Gentlemen,” Stanford called, placing a hand on his hip, “I believe we have a Leshy on our hands.” The name sounded familiar to Fiddleford. It was definitely something the scientist had mentioned before, but he couldn’t place it.

“A- A what?” Stanley stuttered, at a loss for words.

“They are a sort of protector, what some may refer to as ‘spirit of the forest’, here to make sure everything is thriving. They aren’t necessarily ‘bad’,” he used air quotes, “but they don’t like humans. They steal signs and like to get people lost and disorientated to keep them out of the forest, or sometimes even lead them back to their lair. But there aren’t many reported cases of that, so no worries! Plus, we could lull him to sleep with some music even if we did get in a scuffle.” Stanford pointed to the banjo he had strapped around his backpack; the one Fiddleford had, somewhat unwillingly, allowed him to borrow for this trip.

“Alright,” Stanley replied, nodding his head as he took it all in, “so what exactly does this thief look like? Ya know, just so I can rough up the right guy.”

“Stanley, I don’t think that’s a wise decision,” Fiddleford chimed in, shooting the larger man a stern look.

“He’s right, Lee,” Stanley offered before his twin could begin to argue. “These things are around 20 feet tall _at least_. They are, in layman's terms, basically walking tree-men. Sometimes they have tails, or beards, or even antlers. They tend to change form,” he motioned to the pile of moss and tree bark on the ground, “and when they do, they shed like most animals in the summer.”

Fiddleford straightened his glasses to make sure he was seeing things correctly because _good Lord,_ this monster must have been colossal.

“Listen, fellas,” he started, “let’s just go back to the Shack and--”

“No way. Not until I get back what’s rightfully mine,” Stanley cut in, leaning back against a broad pine tree. Fiddleford crossed his arms against his chest.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, steal someone’s wallet to pay for the damages?”

“Don’t encourage him...” Stanford muttered, hardly looking up from his journal.

“Ford, are you hearing this?” Stanley made an exaggerated motion of cupping his ears, “Am I hearing things or is Fidds _condoning_ _my_ _practices_?”

“Calling them ‘practices’ is being a little too generous. You _con_ people, Stan--”

“Alright,” Stanford called, eyes shifting to and from the two of them, “Enough. I swear you two bicker like an old married couple.” Fiddleford balled his fists, feeling himself go red to the tips of his ears.

“Point being, I would side with Fidds on this one,” Stanford continued, his brother promptly rolled his eyes in response, “but, uh,” he laughed nervously, “It may be a bit too late to go back.”

Fiddleford’s eyes grew wide.

“W-what do you mean?” he stuttered, the blush rapidly fading from his face.

“Well… The forest marker that I put here was to indicate that we’re about six miles from the Shack. There’s no way we can make it back before sundown.” Fiddleford turned his attention to the sky; it had turned a deep red, almost violet. Light was fading fast. The trees casted long, inky shadows, darkening the forest floor. It was almost sinister.

“I think we all know a little too well what kinds of beast attack travelers at night. We couldn’t make the trek back while it’s pitch black even if we tried. I think our best option would be to stay put for the night. And the moment the sun rises, we get out of here.”

Fiddleford swallowed thickly. If he had despised the forest during the day, he couldn’t _even imagine_ what night would be like.  

“Well,” Stanley said, slow and steady, “it’s a good thing Pop’s yearly camping trip will finally be put to use...” Fiddleford eyed him carefully. How was he not even remotely afraid? Or, maybe he was frightened. Stanley Pines had indisputably been the king of hiding emotions. Stanley glanced in Fiddleford’s direction, catching his stare. Fiddleford looked away quickly.

“Hey,” Stanley said, clearing his throat, “it’s not all bad. At least you made us pack sleeping bags, Ford.”

Fiddleford stiffened. He had interpreted ‘bring supplies in case we get lost’ as food and a change of clothes, not as a sleeping bag. He had figured Stanford could get them in and out before sunset.

_Well, shit._

“Fidds?” Stanley snapped his fingers in front of his face, “Did you hear me? We need to go collect firewood so poindexter can start a fire.” Fiddleford nodded, following closely behind Stanley into the dense forest. He would just have to bring up his little mishap later, if he could manage to swallow his pride.

\--

_Of course._

Of course he had forgotten a sleeping bag but had been bothered to bring marshmallows.

The fire reached for the sky, locked in an endless grapple against its darkness. It danced in front of them, colors rivalling that of the sunset earlier. As safe as the fire made Fiddleford feel, it certainly didn’t cure his bitterness or anxiety; all that lay past the security of the flames’ light was unknown.

Stanford reached into the plastic bag, snatching another marshmallow to put on his stick. He pulled it from the inferno before it was even browned. Stanley, on the other hand, enjoyed watching as his was engulfed in flames, as if he was seeing how close to charcoal he could it get before it was inedible. It suited him.

“And, for you.” Stanley handed him another marshmallow, their hands brushing during the exchange. Fiddleford tried to ignore the chill that went down his spine. _It could be worse_ , he reasoned. If he was stranded in a deadly forest, he might as well be there with the two closest people in his life. It was sort of like an adult sleepover, only there were vicious monsters involved. Now that he thought about it, _no, it was not like a sleepover at all._

“Alright, truth or dare, Fidds?”

 _I stand corrected_.

Stanley grinned maliciously at him from where he was spread out against the dirt, an elbow propping his head off the ground. It was almost predatoral.

“Truth,” Fiddleford replied, choosing his answer carefully. He knew a little too well that the boxer lived to rile him up. Stanley flopped onto his back with a huff, clearly disappointed.

“You’re no fun.”

“Are you going to ask or what?” he muttered with exasperation; he was not in the mood for this.

“Fine…” Stanley trailed off, thinking over his one question before finally asking, “Do play any instruments?” The question felt loaded.

“No.” Fiddleford answered a bit too forcefully.

“Bullshit,” Stanford called with a laugh, resting his stick against a log they had dragged up. He continued, “Back in college, you used to play the banjo all the time!”

“Back in college, we both had long hair! College was a different time, Stanford.” It was a hobby he had picked up while procrastinating for exams. It was something he liked to do in solitude, and definitely not in the middle of a perilous forest under the harsh, critiquing eyes of Stanley Pines.

“Hold on!” Stanford muttered, rushing over to the pile of bags and other supplies they had brought with them. He retrieved the banjo and shoved it into Fiddleford’s unexpecting arms. The engineer had almost forgotten that they had brought it along.

“Play something for us, Doc.”

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, Fidds,” Stanley implored, both brothers huddled on either side of him, “just a few chords, please?” Fiddleford stiffened. Stanley _never_ said please, it was practically a rule of his. He cursed himself for never being able to say no to that puppy-dog face.

“Plus, the music could lull the Leshy and could save our skins tonight.” Stanford added, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Fine, but just this once! And I’m not singing.”

The twins smiled and glanced at each other in an eerily similar fashion. Fiddleford ran a hand along the slick strings, feeling the familiar tiny grooves. He turned a tuning peg, plucked a string, and was surprised to find the instrument was in tune. He took a deep breath, pressing three fingers onto the strings before he began to strum. The tune was fast and cheerful, something he had remembered from all those late nights. The brothers watched, eyes wide as his hand moved swiftly and effortlessly down the rows of strings.

Stanley pushed himself to his feet.

“New rule,” he said above the music, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him up, “you either play somethin’ or dance.”

Stanford sighed, giving into his brother’s spontaneous whims. They jocularly swung in careless circles, purposely stepping on each other’s feet and chuckling at the chaos of it all. Fiddleford found himself smiling along.

The song ended almost as quickly as it had started. Stanford approached him, holding out his arms expectantly. Fiddleford handed him the banjo, raising an eyebrow in question.

“What? Are you going to play the _one_ song I taught you?” he joked, a large grin spreading over his features.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Stanford replied as he plopped down in the dirt. He plucked the strings, trying to remember the first notes before muscle memory kicked in. The song was a bit slower, a beginner level melody.

Fiddleford turned his head to find Stanley’s hand in front of him.

“You know the rules, Fidds…” He said with a grin. Fiddleford felt heat creep up into his face. _Ah, why the hell not?_ He thought as he pushed down his nervousness.

He took Stanley’s hand.

Their left hands intertwined, his right hand resting on the larger man’s shoulder, Stanley’s hand placed on his hip... Fiddleford felt dazed. His heart thumped, ever persistent, in his chest, reminding him just how close he was pressed to the other man.

They swept into a clumsy, lighthearted waltz, neither caring much about their uncoordinated steps as long as they dodged the fire. Fiddleford laughed, unsure of exactly why he was doing so. It was the first time he had felt so light hearted and carefree in while; the laughter just seemed to bubble over and spill out, carrying his worries with it. Stanley followed in suit, giving a deep laugh as he spun them faster, the song coming to an end.

\--

Stanford was already asleep, tucked neatly into his sleeping bag.

Fiddleford had taken to tearing off pieces of fallen leaves, passing them to Stanley, who from there, would toss the pieces into the fire, observing as the flames consumed them. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, in silence, neither wanting to break the comfortable peace between them. Stanford gave a particularly loud snore. The two glanced at each other, giggling as they continued to watch the small-scale destruction.

“Aren’t you gettin’ tired?” Fiddleford questioned as he tore into more foliage.

“Nah, I’m keepin’ watch tonight,” Stan answered, tearing his eyes from the fire to look at the smaller man leaning into his shoulder.

“You have to fall asleep sometime, Stanley…” Fiddleford was met with silence as the boxer threw a great handful of leaves into the fire. Smoke bloomed, rising and disappearing into the night sky.

“Why aren't you asleep yet, Fidds? You seem pretty tuckered out.”

The question caught him off guard.

“Well, I-I,” he stuttered, wringing his hands, “I misunderstood Stanford you see, and, well I forgot to pack my sleeping bag.”

“Just take mine, nerd.” Stanley yawned, mouth twitching as he tried not to snicker.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just sleep on the ground by the fire. It’ll basically be the same thing.”

“Oh, shut up, I _know_ you hate dirt and the forest. Just take my sleeping bag.”

“Where will you sleep, then?”

“I’m gonna stay up all night, remember? I’m on patrol for that plate-stealing tree bastard.”

“Stanley, there’s no way you are staying up after that hike! _Your eyes are already drooping!_ ”

“What, you don’t think I can--"

“Just fucking share the sleeping bag!” Stanford yelled from across them, shooting them both a glare before flopping back down.

Stanley and Fiddleford glanced at each other, and then to the singular sleeping bag.

“I-I mean, I _guess.”_

“It’s b-big enough, s-so…”

Stanley, tired and defeated, pulled himself into the sleeping bag, scooting close to the edge. Fiddleford folded his coat, carefully laying it beside his backpack before sliding in next to the larger man. Cramped was an understatement of the situation. The slick fabric pressed into his shoulder and stretched tight across his chest. Uncomfortable, he tried to reposition himself. This only led to hopeless squirming.  

“Christ, Fidds, I’m trying to get some shut eye over here,” Stanley said, voice thick with sleep. And was that a bit of his Jersey accent Fiddleford had heard slip through? He commanded his stomach to stop twisting into knots; he had more important issues to focus on. Like how the hell he was going to get to sleep so he could walk home six miles tomorrow.

“I thought you said you weren’t tired?” Fiddleford retorted snarkily, rolling over on his side. He let out a frustrated huff of breath. This was _not_ working.

“Just shuddup and c’mere,” Stanley mumbled, slinging an arm around Fiddleford midsection and pulling him close. A calloused hand settled on his exposed midriff, where his shirt had ridden up from tossing and turning. Fiddleford felt paralyzed. He didn’t move. He didn’t _breathe_. He laid motionless, Stanley’s breath warm and steady against the back of his neck, his heart fluttering madly in his chest.

When he finally had the courage to take a breath again--he couldn’t tell if his head was spinning from the moment or from lack of oxygen--he relaxed against the sleeping man’s form. It was the first time he had ever felt safe so far from the Shack. He was comfortable, secure; Stanley’s arms felt like home. The thought nestled deep within his chest, taking up residence close to his heart.

He was at peace; his mind was slowing down. A new emotion washed over him: exhaustion. The engineer’s eyelids became heavier with the minute, finally sliding close. He brought his hand away from his face, entwining his fingers with that of the hand placed against his waist. He vaguely heard Stanley mutter something into his hair before he finally slipped into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Leshy (which aparently doesn't have one, solid, pronounciation) is part of Slavic folklore, and I really hope I wasn't butchering anyone's favorite fairytale while writting this.


	4. Close Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group becomes seperated as Fiddleford finds something is playing tricks on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I can only write so much romance before I write full on violence. It's a bad habit. 
> 
> So trigger warning for violence, blood, swearing, and hallucinations.

As usual, Fiddleford was the first to wake.

He glanced down at their clasped hands. For once, it hadn’t just been a dream. The engineer turned his attention to the rose colored sky on the cusp of dawn. The forest certainly didn’t look as familiar as the place they were stranded all night: towering pine trees replaced by thin, twisting birches. He chalked it up to the fact that he hadn’t been able to see much beyond the fire that night. But still, something felt wrong.

He looked over his shoulder. Stanley was still sound asleep, eyes moving underneath his lids. Fiddleford fought the dopey smile that spread across his lips. He might not have another chance to study the boxer when he looked so… unguarded.

A twig snapped. Fiddleford jumped, eyes scanning the clearing. His stomach gave a sickening lurch.  He felt like he was being watched.

Moving achingly slow, he tried to unwrap Stanley’s arms out from around him. As soon as he had lifted the second one, he was met with a deep, reluctant hum. The boxer’s arms coiled around him with more force, pulling the engineer back against his chest.

“Stan, I need to get up.” Fiddleford whispered, patting his hand.

“But you’re warm…” Stanley mumbled, still half asleep.

“This is important.” He feigned annoyance, wanting nothing more than to let the man pull him in yet again. He had to control himself; he would not allow his emotions to get the better of him and endanger his friend’s lives.

With a sigh, Stanley slowly unraveled his arms from around the smaller man.

Fiddleford offered a small, “Thank you,” before slipping out. The cold morning breeze was a harsh, unwelcome difference from the warmth of the sleeping bag. Fiddleford shivered against the cold.

He was being watched, Fiddleford knew it for a fact this time that it wasn’t just paranoia. The eye-like markings of the twisted birch trees looked through him. He felt hollow. A chill ran down his spine.

The engineer approached the sleeping form he knew was Stanford, wrapped somewhere under the mass of blankets. He shook the man hard, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with each isolated moment.

“Stanford, get up.”

“Just ten more minutes, okay?”

“ _Now,_ Stanford. Something’s wrong.” He commanded through clenched teeth, trying to stop his voice from shaking. He was unsettled to say the least.

Stanford sighed and sat up, unfolding his glasses and placing them onto his face. His eyes widened as he glanced around at their surroundings.

“Fiddleford, where _the hell_ are we?”

“I-I thought we are in the same place as last night?”

Every inch of the forest looked the same to him; it was all covered in trees, dirt, and deadly creatures.

“No,” Stanford said, dread filling his voice, “this is _not_ where we fell asleep last night.”

Fiddleford felt unease pool in the pit of his stomach as the other man continued.

“No, these birches weren’t here. The grass wasn’t dead-- Our fire’s _missing.”_

“How did this happen?” Fiddleford tried to ignore the way his voice cracked in confusion. They were lost. It was official.

“The Leshy!” Stanford hissed, “It must have either warped us over here somehow or completely changed our surroundings.” He reached into his bag, pulling out a silver compass.

“The Shack was to the North, so if we just stick in that direction, we should be able to--”

A scream cut through the air. A flock of crows flew from the trees.

“That was in the deeper in the forest…” Fiddleford voice quieted as he trailed off, wringing his hands nervously. He looked to Stanford for answers, unsure of what to do.

 “I need you to wake up my brother, okay?” Stanford called breathlessly as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? You can’t go venturing out there on your own!” Fiddleford warned as the scientist made a beeline in the direction of the wail.

“It sounded like a _child_ , Fiddleford!”

The engineer fell silent.

“I’m not just going to leave the kid out there, helpless and injured. Wake up Stanley. If I’m not back in ten minutes come looking for me. But be careful.” Fiddleford didn’t reply. Stanford shot him a grimace before dashing deeper into the forest. The smaller man watched him go with unease until he had disappeared beyond the ridge.

A shiver rippled down Fiddleford’s spine as the feeling of eyes on him returned. He spun around on his heel, looking accusingly behind him.

He swore he had heard whispers.

Stopping every few feet to glance behind him, he made his way to the boxer-- _how did he sleep through all that?_  --in great leaps and bounds, as if something was nipping at his heels.

“Stanley!” He exclaimed, unable to mask the panic in his voice. The man shot up, on his feet in a heartbeat, looking around wildly.

“What’s wrong?” He demanded, gripping Fiddleford’s shoulders.

“There was a scream and Stanford went to go check it out and I think something is watching us and the Leshy teleported us or cursed us or something during the night, I’m not really sure and--”

“Slow down. Did you say Ford went off into the forest, _alone_?”

Fiddleford nodded, watching somberly as Stanley’s face fell.

“We have to go get him.”

“W-What? But he said--”

“I don’t pay attention to what Ford says half the time, much less while he’s in danger! We’re going to get him. It isn’t safe out there alone.”

“I don’t know if that’s--,”

Fiddleford stopped short as the other man’s head swiveled to the left.

“Stanley?” He questioned, taking a step closer. The boxer’s eyes were vacant and clouded over, his posture rigid. He made a small choking noise before darting off past the birch trees, knocking Fiddleford over in the process.

“Stanley!” He called, pushing himself to his feet and sprinting after him. Briars cut through his face and snagged on his sleeves as he raced through the underbrush.

Fiddleford was alone. He had lost all sight of Stanley; the man had trained for years while boxing, leaving him the most physically fit of the group. He wouldn’t be able to catch up to the man’s full sprint. Fiddleford slowed his pace, glancing around the looming forest for any signs of the man.

“Stan- oof!”

He ran face-first into Stanley’s back.

Stanley was trembling. He restlessly shifted from foot to foot, hands clenched into tight fists. His wide, dilated pupils focused on something high above Fiddleford’s head. Fiddleford turned, looking up, only spotting the leafy canopy above their heads. He looked back to the larger man, lines of worry etched into his face.

“S-Stan?” Fiddleford murmured, frightened. He had never seen the man react this way before.

Suddenly, Stanley moved, placing his head in his hands and tightly gripping his hair. Fiddleford watched curiously, taking a step back as the man’s mouth began to move.

“I fucked up, _I fucked up_. I just got him back, I can’t lose him again!” Fiddleford stepped forward, hesitantly reaching out a hand as another slew of words fell rapidly from the boxer.

“And I just heard him, he was screaming for my help,” Stanley’s voice broke as he glanced around. “I can’t go through this again. Which way did he go, I have to help him, _and I have to_ \--”

Something in Fiddleford’s brain clicked. He griped the larger man’s shoulders and shook him.

“Stanley, listen, it mimics people!”

Stanley freed himself from the engineer’s grasp, trembling harder than ever.

“No, no! I gotta find him. He was here a second ago. _Which way?_ I can’t--” he was starting to hyperventilate, chest heaving as he looked for an imaginary figure. Fiddleford tried again, placing both hands on either side of Stanley’s face, bringing him to meet his eyes.

“It’s not real Stan. You’re hallucinating. Whatever awful is going on your head isn’t real! I’m here, I’m real, Stanley, please, listen--!”

Stanley blinked, slowly lowering his arms.

“Fidds?”

“I’m here.”

He wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands, his large, brown eyes falling on the smaller man, finally recognizing him.

“I thought…” Stanley didn’t finish his sentence. Fiddleford left it be, letting his hands fall from the larger man’s face. The boxer took a step back, sniffling.

“W-where’s Ford?”

“We need to go get him.” Fiddleford said steadily. He needed to be strong for the both of them. There was no telling what kind of hallucination Stanford had fallen prey to. He gently took Stanley’s hand, leading him through the trees.

“He headed this way maybe 10 minutes ago. He can’t be far, especially if we hurry.” Stanley nodded, taking a deep breath to regain his composure.

“Okay. Think you can keep up, nerd?” He joked with a half-hearted smile, still looking dazed.

Fiddleford eyed him incredulously. This man had just been put through a sort of emotional trauma Fiddleford couldn’t begin to fathom, and here he was still trying to keep other’s spirits high.

Stanley Pines hid behind a facade of half-baked insults and sarcasm to keep people from finding out the truth: that he was so immensely amiable, willing to drop anything and everything for a battered friend. There was no telling what people would exploit with this kind of information, so he had learned to tuck it away, displaying his hardened shell to world and his kind heart to the a lucky few. He was a damn fine liar and a thief, robbing the whole world of their cash and a chance to know the real him. It had only been after months of careful friendship that Fiddleford had made it this far, and yet the man still came with more surprises each and every day.

“I run from monsters every day of my life,” Fiddleford huffed as they hurtled through the underbrush, “this is like a walk in the park.”

“Don’t get cocky, nerd.” The larger joked, holding a branch out of the way for the other trailing behind him. “You never know when you might get shoved into a locker.”

“I’m 100% positive there are no lockers in the for--“

“Wait, do you hear that?” Stanley stopped him. He looked down, realizing they were still holding hands.  

“Hear wh--?”

“Shh!” Stanley pulled him forward, creeping through the fallen leaves. Fiddleford jumped back, spotting movement from just beyond the tree line. And… was that laughter? He felt resentment fester in his chest; if Stanford was relaxing and having fun while the two of them ran rampant searching for him, he would-

The boxer pushed through the branches.

They both turned to each other, slack-jawed at the sight before them.

Stanford was wallowing on the ground, laughing as a small tree man _tickled_ him.

“What the fuck?” Stanley voiced Fiddleford’s thoughts aloud.

“Stanley! Fiddleford!” Stanford croaked between laughs, wiggling towards them as the monster continued to do what he did best, “The Leshy-! Ha, he- he tickles p-people to death! Help!” He kicked at the creature’s willowy arms. Stanley balled his hands into fists as the two of them charged into the meadow.

“Hey ya big lug!” He called, throwing a rock at the beast, “Why don’t you scamper off and go pick on something your own size!” The monster swiveled its head, staring at the two of them with its empty, black eyes. Fiddleford gulped and edged to stand behind Stanley.

The Leshy stepped back. He let his long, thin arms fall to his sides, spidery hands reaching past his knees and scraping the tall grass. Stanford crawled across the ground, desperate to get away.

“Lee! Doc! Run, it’s gonna--”

The Leshy screeched, high pitched and ear splitting. The trio clasped their hands against their ears, attempting to block out the horrible noise.

It lunged for Stanford.

Stanley caught it midair, giving it a left hook to its jaw. It reared back, bringing its bony fingers to its face in a shocked display.

“Whoa,” Stanley marveled at his hand, pulling Stanford to his feet, “splinters…”

“Just run!”

The three took off, feet hardly touching the ground as they sprinted for their lives. The Leshy was close behind them. Its long, gangly limbs reached out to snatch them up. Fiddleford glanced back with a gasp. It had _grown._ The monster, who had once been a lanky 6 feet, had flourished. At least twelve feet tall, he towered over them, in pursuit.

“Fidds, over here!”

He paused. _The campsite!_

The monster shrieked again, its skeletal fingers snapping dangerously close to Fiddleford’s head.

“Duck!” Stanford yelled, gripping his emergency crossbow.

Fiddleford ducked, leaping into the clearing as an arrow sank into one of the Leshy’s soulless eyes. Stanley rushed forward to pull him to his feet, both gazing in horror as the creature’s blue blood dripped down its gnarled face. It had grown again, doubling in size. The Leshy’s long mossy beard hung from its cracked face to its bulky chest. Its arms were as thick as logs; it looked like the creature could easily toss aside a mountain. Sharp antlers, long and entangled on the top of its head, extended from its skull, and were rivalled only in size by the jagged, spear like protrusions along its spine.

Stanley threw an arm in front of Fiddleford as the monster bellowed in pain. Stanford shot again, the arrow piercing the Leshy’s wooden flesh through the stomach.

“How many of those things do you got?” Stanley questioned as the trio took cautious steps backwards.

“Just one more. If we could distract it and I could get close enough, I maybe could- oomph!”

The Leshy’s gigantic hand smacked him back, slamming him against a tree. Stanley darted for his brother. The creature balled a hand into a fist, raising it high above his horned head. It aimed for Stanley. Fiddleford looked around desperately, searching for some means of distraction.

_There!_

He gripped the neck of the banjo, pulling off the ground. Rushing forward, he striked the monster’s lichen-covered shin with the instrument. The banjo fractured into pieces. The Leshy roared, swiping at Fiddleford. He hit the ground, the oaken digits missing his back by a hair.

“Don’t you _dare_ touch him!” Stanley snarled. He launched himself onto the creature’s calf, digging his nails into the grass along its skin. The creature lifted his foot off the ground in an attempt to shake the boxer off. His size hindered his speed; Stanley continued to scale the Leshy’s leg.

Fiddleford retreated back to where Stanford stood. He was in better condition; on his feet while holding a palm against a forehead cut, blood dripping over his closed eye.

“What the hell does that idiot he think he’s doing? The crossbow is broken! He can’t _punch_ the thing to death!” Stanford yelled, his face grave.

“The cross bow! That’s it!” Fiddleford exclaimed, shifting through the shattered pieces of wood and metal. He plucked the last remaining arrow from the wreckage.

“Stanley!” He screamed, drawing the man’s attention. The boxer had just reached the top of the Leshy’s shoulder.

“Catch!”

He launched the arrow up, watching as it precariously spun.

Stanley reached up, snatching it from the air. He winced as the sharp point cut into his fingers. Blood trickled down his arm, but he didn’t bother to stop it; he was ready for revenge.

“You picked the wrong day to mess with me, you son of a bitch!” He muttered, raising both hands into the air and stabbing the arrow into the Leshy’s clavicle. Indigo blood splattered his face and clothes. The creature roared, taking a few steps back from the campsite. Stanley took the opportunity to slide down its arm, catching hold of the moss on its wrist, before dropping the rest of the way to the ground.

“That’s for damaging my car!”

The Leshy whimpered, placing a bony hand over its collarbone. Black, hollow eyes stared at each of them for a moment. Fiddleford held his breath. It let out a low groan.

It one motion, the Leshy turned and began its slow, earth-shaking descent back into the forest.

Fiddleford and Stanford cheered as they rushed over to their companion, pulling him off the ground. Stanley wrapped a disgustingly bloodied arm around each of them, cheering along in celebration.

“Pines! Pines! Pines! Pines!”

“And McGucket!” Fiddleford intervened.

“And McGucket.” Stanley reassured, tussling the engineer’s sandy hair. Fiddleford recoiled in disgust.

“Ew, disgusting! At least wash yourself off before touching me.”

“Aw, c’mere Fidds! I know you want a big ol’ hug!” Stanley laughed, grinning from ear to ear.

Stanford watched joyfully as his brother chased the smaller man in circles around the campsite, arms open, before scooping him up into a tight embrace.

“Stanley! Put me down, immediately! Let go!”

“That’s not what you were saying last night!”

“Stanley Pines, I’m going to slap--”

Stanford cleared his throat. The two stopped. Fiddleford would have been blushing if it wasn’t for the fact that he too was covered in blue gunk from head to toe. He watched as the two awkwardly shuffled away from each other.

Stanford rolled his eyes with a sigh and slung his pack over his shoulder.

“Alright, team, let’s head out so we can get some lunch that doesn’t consist of marshmallows.”

\--

Much later, at the Shack, Fiddleford pulled out their worn first aid kit. He didn’t have a lot medical experience; he was a doctor of science, not of medicine. But for the trio, he was their go-to-guy for injuries. As soon as he had patched up the cut over Stanford’s eye, the scientist had made a mad dash for the kitchen. Fiddleford, himself, felt his stomach rumble at the thought. But he would finish making his rounds.

“Stanley,” He called to the man in the yellow chair, “do you have anything needin’ attention?”

Stanley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Fiddleford deadpanned.

“Can’t you be serious for once in your life?” He crossed his arms, fuming. The boxer dodged his questions with ease, as per usual.

“Are you still upset over that ‘shower’ Ford gave us?”

“Hosing me down in the yard does _not_ count as a bath!” Stanley watched with glee as the smaller man stamped his foot on the ground. As much as he loved watching Fiddleford squirm and lose his temper, he had to draw the line before the man started throwing a tantrum.

“Geez, alright,” He held his palms up defensively, “I’m sorry I got that thing’s bl--” Stanley fell silent as the engineer grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand closer to his spectacled face.

“You’re hurt.” Fiddleford muttered, keeping a firm grip on his wrist as he opened the first aid kit. The cut was deep; he had no idea how he hadn’t noticed the blood before. He unraveled a long surgical bandage, wrapping the fabric many times over around the other’s palm. He felt Stanley’s brown eyes burning into him as he worked, taping over the gauze.

“Tell me if the bleeding doesn’t stop or if it gets red and swollen.” The engineer commented as he leaned back. He met Stanley’s wide, curious eyes.

“I can handle it, nerd.” The silence that followed was deafening.

“Just be more careful next time. You’re not some big action movie hero, Stan.”

“I know.”

Fiddleford’s expression softened, knowing he had struck a nerve.

“But,” He straightened his glasses and cleared his throat before continuing, “You did a nice thing back there. You pretty much saved your friends from certain doom. Even though you should be less _reckless_ in our ‘monster hunts’, you did a good job. You’re a hero in my book.”

And with that, Fiddleford stood and made his way to the kitchen.

Stanley watched him go, dumbfounded, a small smile spreading across his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we only go downhill from here, friends. Enjoy it while it lasts.


	5. Seeing Double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford dispises the Shapeshifter more than any other creature he has encountered. The feeling is mutual. Not everyone returns unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood, violence, and mentions of abuse.

To Fiddleford, the bunker was a coffin. The countless traps Stanford had insisted on installing only took one false move to end a life. Any of the captured monsters they took down for long periods of study could have easily mauled the three of them. _Not to mention, the incident with that thing…_ Fiddleford thought, warily eyeing the being hunched over in the corner.

The Shapeshifter made him extremely uneasy.

He had met it when it first hatched, when it was still extremely tiny and innocent. Stanford loved it and cared for it like a son. He found it not only incredibly fascinating as a test subject, but as a fun and interesting challenge to raise. They both knew no one had ever encountered a cryptid like this before, so Fiddleford supposed this was just another field of science Ford could add to his journals. He supported his friend to the extent of even spoon-feeding the monster baby food before its pincers had come in.

When the Shapeshifter had reached a new stage of maturity, however, it began to suggest some rather aggressive themes. He made it clear that he wanted destruction; but the two had been too blind to notice their project was growing out of hand.

And then it attacked him.

The Shapeshifter had lured him out into the tunnels, trapping him in a maze he was _still_ unfamiliar with. He had the scars across his forearms to prove it. It had taken both of the twins to restrain the beast and lock it in the bunker. Fiddleford had hardly ventured from his desk ever since.

Stanford pressed that they still needed to study it, and so, a compromise was made. They agreed to keep it behind thick Plexiglas walls so it couldn’t escape. They could view the creature for experimental purposes, and it favored Stanford enough to allow him to enter the enclosure for weekly check-ups. There were no signs of a foreseeable problem. Even so, they kept a tranquilizer gun tucked away in their workspace.

Fiddleford rolled his chair back from his desk, leaning back from the log of the Shapeshifter’s activities Stanford had asked him to write. He stretched, closing his eyes as he did so. The engineer couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a good night’s sleep. He opened them to find his face pressed against the glass enclosure.

Shuttering, Fiddleford wrote his name down on the log. He hated when _it_ turned into _him_. It was like looking into a mirror of everything he never wanted to be; trapped, lost, insane, alone… The Shapeshifter leaned back, laughing like a maniac at Fiddleford’s obvious discomfort.

It favored picking on him over the others since the incident, singling him out and spending innumerable hours pacing near his workstation, pressing against the glass as if to remind him: he had come _this_ close. The Shapeshifter stopped, his stretched smile growing wider as he took a few steps away from the glass, focused on something in lab.  

“Ugh, is he bothering you again, Fiddlenerd?”

Fiddleford glanced up briefly from his work to give a half-hearted smile at Stanley.

“Ya know, he only picks on you ‘cause you’re small.” He said as he banged his fist against the glass, making a cut-throat motion at the Shapeshifter. “He must get a kick out of taking advantage of people.”

Fiddleford pushed his glasses up his nose with an irked sigh.

“Just because you and your brother are behemoths, doesn’t mean that I’m tiny.”

“Bu-he- whats?”

“Never mind.” He shook his head, an exasperated grin spreading across his lips. The Shapeshifter squashed his face against the Plexiglas again, perplexed curiosity replacing his usual violent manner. The monster had always seemed baffled at the concept of twins, how two people could look very similar without the need for supernatural powers. The engineer swore some part of it had to do with jealousy.

Both men turned, hearing boots clank across the floor as Stanford ambled into the room, unshaven and disheveled. The man exhaled deeply, setting down a research journal as well as a coffee cup on top of his already cluttered desk. This place would have been a wreck if Fiddleford hadn’t constantly tidied up after the twins. He supposed it would be another late night in the bunker for him.

“That monster in there keeps pickin’ on Fidds.” Stanley said, drawing his brother’s attention by pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Shapeshifter. Stanford ran a hand through his messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes more apparent than ever.

“I’ll bring that up to him.”

Earning a confused look from both of his assistants, Stanford continued, “Oh, I’ve promised him a nice, private chat. It’s sort of like a- a deal. He can bring up some of his concerns so I can try to make him more comfortable during these trials, and I get some clue as to what’s going on inside his head.”

“Are you crazy? That thing will tear you apart!” Stanley shouted, his reaction was about what Fiddleford had predicted it would be. The engineer took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder at the Shapeshifter.

This time, starring back at him was Stanford’s face. He shot the Shapeshifter the most resentful look he could muster. He opened his mouth to interrupt the twins’ bickering, but his voice caught in his throat as the Shapeshifter began to transform again. Its hair grew shorter, more cared for, its shoulders became wider, it’s arms broader...

Fiddleford’s blood ran cold, eyes widening as the thing taped against the glass with an awful, familiar, smirk, fully transformed into Stanley. Fiddleford gripped his clipboard so hard he thought he would snap the wood in two. _This should not bother you, this should not bother you, this should not bother you_ , he repeated like a mantra in his head.

Suddenly, Stanford shot forward, rushing over towards Fiddleford’s desk.

“Holy shit,” He whispered in awe, “He’s never turned into you before, Lee!” Stanley turned, raising an eyebrow at the Shapeshifter.

“Eh, still not as good as the original.” The boxer joked, scratching his chin in feigned disinterest.

“Alright,” Stanford declared, puffin out his chest, “I’m going to speak with him.” Stanley’s face fell, uncertainty lining his features.

“I’ll yell if I need anything; it’s not like he’s going to _kill_ me. In a weird way, we’re like old friends. So don’t freak out.” He called over his shoulder, grabbing his research journal and unlocking the steel door.

“You better come back, or _I’ll_ kill you!” Stanley yelled as Stanford closed the door behind him, the groan and clank of the lock echoing across the bunker. The taller man sighed, staring pitifully after his twin for a moment before grabbing a neat stack of files on Fiddleford’s worktable and dropping them to the floor. He pushed himself up on the heels of his hands, sitting down on the desk.

Fiddleford didn’t bother to lecture him on how important that material was; he knew the boxer would either block him out or tease him on the subject. Instead he had taken to passive-aggressively scowling at the man perched on his desk.

Stanley was the first to break the silence.

“If that asshole doesn’t leave you alone after this, just let me know.” Stanley cracked his knuckles, looking vaguely menacing. The engineer was taken aback; he hadn’t expected the topic to change so quickly.

“Stanley, you are _not_ going to fight that giant, terrifying monster.”

“No, we are just gonna have a nice, relaxing chat.” Stanley said with a sinister glint to his eye. Fiddleford gulped. Sometimes he forgot that this man not only had been a championship boxer, but that picking fights with monsters was his ideal version of a Saturday night.

Stanley’s eyes were glued to the door, his expression blank.

“Stanford can handle himself.” Fiddleford piped in, surfacing the boxer from his thoughts, “Besides, they are probably just talking about having a wonderful father-son camping trip, or something.” Stanford’s fondness of the Shapeshifter had been an old joke of theirs after the man had carried it around in a pouch strapped to his chest like a child.

“Or,” Stanley snickered, turning to fully face the smaller man, “they could be planning a bring-your-son-to-work-day. Too bad his son is already the lab experiment!”

“Oh, that’s cruel!” Fiddleford replied in between laughs, fighting the wide grin on his face. “I can’t even imagine how he went about explainin’ how the world worked.”

Stanley plucked Fiddleford’s glasses off of his face and placed them on his own. He straightened his back and cleared his throat.

“Now son,” He feigned concern, imitating Stanford’s voice almost perfectly, “it’s time to have a little chat about why you get so sweaty as you get older.” Fiddleford erupted into a great fit of laughter. He clutched his side, almost falling out of his chair.

Fiddleford’s laugh was cut short as the door was thrown open.

Stanford was gasping for breath, his red face contorted into a look of fear that twisted Fiddleford’s stomach into knots. He glanced at the two of them, white knuckles clutching onto his journal, then dashed out of the room and up the stairs.

The two swapped looks of worry and leapt to their feet, rushing after him. Stanley grabbed onto Fiddleford’s arm at the bottom of the stairs, turning the smaller man to face him.

“Listen, I’ll handle this. Ford doesn’t… like for people to see him like this…”

Wary, Fiddleford grimaced, looking from the door to Stanley.

“I just need to calm him down, and then I’ll be right back. No need to worry, nerd.” Stanley folded up Fiddleford’s glasses and placed them in the engineer’s lab coat pocket with an anxious smile. And with that, he was gone, charging up the stairs after his brother. Fiddleford watched him go as he disappeared behind the door. He trudged back to his desk, concern overcoming him.

_What had the Shapeshifter said to upset Stanford this badly?_

He pushed it from his mind. Stanley could handle it, and the two of them would be back, laughing and joking before dinner. Besides, he had work to do. Pulling out his own research notes, the ones Stanford insisted Fiddleford kept in case one of them had overlooked some detail, he scanned over his previous entries.

It had been three days since Fiddleford had had to forcibly drag Stanley away from a group of sirens when Stanford had taken away the man’s ear plugs to “test the scientific effect they had” on him. Fiddleford knew there was no real danger if Stanford was comfortable letting his brother run wild, but it made him nervous regardless.

They were half way to the lakeshore when Fiddleford finally decided to take the pair of ear plugs Stanley had given him out of his pockets and force them into a struggling Stanley’s ears. When they were finally in, Stanley, disorientated and confused, toppled to the ground, pushing both he and Fiddleford into the muddy reeds. They landed on the soggy ground, limbs entangled, Stanley’s face pressed into the smaller man’s neck. Fiddleford had taken a shaky breath and desperately pulled himself out from under Stanley before the other could see the blush creeping onto his face.

He was still sitting on the ground, brushing dirt off of his shirt when he heard Stanley call over with a laugh, “What, that wasn’t romantic enough for ya, Fidds?”

Fiddleford contemplated slapping him.

The message must have gotten across, because Stanley actually let his brother drive the car for once, and instead spent the whole ride picking twigs and muck out of Fiddleford’s hair.

Fiddleford sighed, almost wishing he was back in the reeds, even if it was disgusting. Anywhere was better than where he was. He looked down at his crude drawing of a Siren, noting the poison sacks under their gills.

Hearing footsteps, Fiddleford turned in his chair.

“Oh, Stanley! Back already? Is everything okay?” He questioned rapidly, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Stanley looked up from his hands. A grin spread across his lips as he moved towards Fiddleford.

“Yes. Everything is fine.”

\---

By the time Stanley had sprinted up the stairs, Stanford was already on the ground, a lit cigarette in his hand. His back was pressed against the metal Cedar, face to the sky, staring at the diverse tree canopy above him. Red, swollen eyes, flushed cheeks… Stanley knew they were all the telltale signs that his brother had been bawling his eyes out.

He was going to kick the Shapeshifter’s ass.

Stanley sat down, letting his back slide down against the tree. He was no stranger to this situation, and silently offered his company until his brother decided to explain on his own terms what had happened.

Stanford took a deep, shaky breath.

“A while back,” He started slowly, “I decided to show him a bit of human culture, thinking it might influence him in some way. I gave him newspapers, and encyclopedias, but he still wanted more. So, I gave him one of our old scrapbooks.” Stanford took another shaky inhale, grabbing a handful of grass.

“Bingo,” Stanley whispered under his breath, waiting for his brother to continue.

“I went in there, and I started asking him questions like ‘Why are you acting out so frequently?’ and ‘Why do you have this urge to be so violent?’.” Stanford started to tremble. “He just wouldn’t answer anything and I was so _frustrated_ and then,” he paused tearing the grass from its shallow roots and flinging it into the air.

“He turned into dad and he started _mocking_ me. And I just could- I couldn’t take it! I- my throat started closing up and I thought my heart was going to rip itself out of my chest--” He let his last sentence trail off, hugging his arms against himself.

Stanley was silent for a very long time. Their father had never been a kind man. He was strict, and had a nasty anger streak, one that was cold and calculated. To Ford, his father had taken it out on him emotionally. Stanley, however, recieved more physical punishments.

“We don’t have to come back here.” He spoke quietly, looking his brother in the face. Stanford blinked in surprise.

“If that scumbag’s going to upset you enough to make you have a panic attack, then I’ll deal with him myself and we don’t ever have to come back here. There’s miles of forest around here; we can build another bunker if it’s that important to you. But don’t keep pitying him and babying him. He’s a monster, Ford. And he is one you don’t have to keep researching and writing about if you don’t want to.”

Stanford sat back, folding his hands in his lap, thinking.

Finally, he spoke up, “No. We will keep this bunker. And I will continue researching the Shapeshifter. It’s for science after all, and if I didn’t have that, I don’t know who I would be anymore.” He stood, his face almost confident.

“Let’s just go back down there and double check that he’s secure for the night.” Stanford reached into his back pocket, continuing, “Then we can all go back to the Shack and-”

He froze, expression rapidly falling.

The scientist swiftly turned to Stanley, mouth-open in shock.

“What, did you leave the oven on or-”

“My keys.” Stanford hissed, rapidly feeling all of his pockets.

“What?”

“ _He took my keys!_ ” Stanford screamed, grabbing onto Stanley’s shoulders and shaking him. Stanley’s countenance of cluelessness drained into a look of dismay. He gasped aloud.

They both looked to the staircase.

“Fiddleford!” They muttered in unison, then took off.

\---

“Good, I was really starting to worry about y’all.” Fiddleford gave a small laugh out of relief. He watched as Stanley opened up another drawer from a desk and scooped out the papers, scanning through them for something.

“Um, so what happened up there?” Fiddleford questioned, curiously leaning to the side to get a better view of what Stanley was doing.

“Oh, you know… brotherly stuff.” He said, almost growling out the words. The boxer emptied another drawer, pulling this one out entirely and shaking its contents onto the floor. He bent down, riffling through the papers.

Fiddleford was starting to get scared. It was pretty normal for Stanley to wreck the place _on accident,_ but this was a little ridiculous. _Had the two of them gotten into a bad fight or something?_ The engineer thought to himself, nervously wringing his hands.

“Uh, Stanley?”

The man's face shot up, irritated.

“What are you looking for?”

Stanley flashed him a smile that was just a bit too wide.

“I’m looking for one of the research journals. Stanford asked me to grab one of them and bring it back to him.”

“Oh!” Fiddleford’s expression softened, “Hold on, I think I may have one on my desk…”

He turned around, searching through his crowded desk until he finally picked up a stack of files Stanley had moved early. Grabbing the journal labelled ‘1’ out from under it, he set the stack back down with a sigh, dreading that he would have to organize this later.

“Stanford gave this one to me earlier so I could compare my notes with hi--” his breath caught in his throat. Stanley had closed the gap across them, so close that he almost pressed up against him, face inches away from the other man.

“-with his.” Fiddleford croaked, finishing his sentence. He leaned back against the desk to put some distance between them. Stanley took another step forward. He grabbed onto the smaller man’s chin when he made an attempt to avert his eyes, forcing the engineer to face him.

“Thank you, Fiddleford.” He practically purred, taking the journal from his sweaty hands. Fiddleford’s heart leapt into his throat. The only response he could get through to his mind was to nod quickly.

He hardly registered when the door opened.

Or when a second, horrified Stanley stepped out, and Stanford soon after.

When Fiddleford finally tore his attention away from the form in front of him, he locked eyes with Stanley. _The real Stanley,_ whose eyebrows were raised so high at the sight in front of him they threatened to fly off of his forehead.

Fiddleford glanced from Stanley to Stanley, making the mistake of letting a look of absolute fear flash over his face.

The Shapeshifter turned, snarling.

In one swift motion, he clamped a hand around Fiddleford’s neck and hoisted him into the air. The engineer grabbed the hand around his throat, pulling desperately to get it off of him. It was to no avail. The Shapeshifter had a kind of strength, calm and calculated, as if he knew a million ways he could snap the man’s neck with a single flick of the wrist. He was doomed.

“Put him down, now!” Stanley yelled, raising his fists.

Laughing, the Shapeshifter tightened his grip on Fiddleford’s neck, blocking off what little air he could get to. He made an awful sound somewhere between gasping and choking and sank his short nails into the monster’s wrist as a last feeble act of desperation.

“What a nuisance.” The Shapeshifter hissed, slamming him against the wall, his grip on his throat still tight. The wall connected with the back of Fiddleford’s head, resounded a sickening _THUD_. His vision went white. Fiddleford whimpered, dizzy and disorientated.

“Let him go, please!” Stanford pleaded in a less commanding tone, the kind of voice people used when talking sternly to a child.

“And why would I do that? I can’t savor your frightened faces if I let him go.”

“Because we’ll give you the journals!” Stanley yelled, earning a shocked look from his twin and the attention of the Shapeshifter. Fiddleford looked on helplessly as spots creeped into the corners of his vision. The brothers needed to act fast, or they wouldn’t have anything left to barter for.  

“All of them,” Stanley assured him, “then you can take any form you want! Mermaid, Gnome, Squash with Human Face and Emotions- anything. Just let him go.”

That too large grin spread over his face again. Loosening his grip around the engineer’s throat, the Shapeshifter allowed him to gasp for breath.

“You can have him.” He said with a shrug, and easily launched the engineer across the room. Fiddleford struck a table before crumpling to the ground, bleeding and wheezing. It took every bit of self-control he had in his body for Stanley not to run to the man’s aid.

“Hand over the journals.” The Shapeshifter took on his slimy, pale, original form, snapping his mouth pincers together menacingly.

“Ford, you have one in your coat pocket right?”

He glanced to his brother, praying he would catch on. Stanford nodded, opening his trench coat and reaching inside. The Shapeshifter stepped closer, and closer…

Fiddleford weakly raised his head and spotted a flash of gold around Stanley’s hand.

_Knuckle dusters…_

Stanley’s fist connected with the Shapeshifter’s right eye before the creature had time to react. The beast stumbled backwards, shocked. Stanford leapt forward, tackling the monster to the ground.

“Get the tranquilizer! Get the tranquilizer!” The scientist screamed, making a last ditch effort to defend himself by smacking the Shapeshifter’s greasy face with a journal. The creature shrieked in rage, throwing Stanford off of him.

Stanley made a mad dash for the tranquilizer gun in the corner of the room.

“Do not tempt me, human! I will _slaughter_ you!” The monster screamed, sliding on loose papers as he fought to stand up again.

_Almost there--_

The tips of Stanley’s fingers grazed the gun as one of the Shapeshifter’s claws fastened onto his calf. The monster jerked him backwards. Stanley’s jaw collided with the floor, his teeth biting into his tongue. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. The boxer desperately tried to grab the gun _just_ out of his reach, fighting the urge to scream at the searing pain in his leg.

Stanley kicked out, his sneaker slamming into the creature’s face. He crushed its snout against his heel, repeatedly lashing out. _Why the hell wouldn’t this thing let go?_   Green blood splattered him as a tooth was knocked out of the monster’s mouth. The Shapeshifter reared back with a screech. His claws dug deeper into Stanley’s leg.

“Get off of me you bastard!” He was screaming every curse word in the book.

Stanford leapt up again, gripping his battered shoulder as he stumbled to where his brother and the beast were struggling on the ground. He grabbed two of the Shapeshifter’s back legs, and tugged, wrenching the creature away.

The Shapeshifter turned, twisting his body to stare at Stanford with his red eyes. There was no sign of kindness in his crimson glare. Stanford gulped. He fell back, narrowly avoiding the monster’s disgusting mouth pincers as they snapped closed millimeters away from the scientist’s face.

Stanley pulled himself to his feet against the wall. He still had one uninjured leg, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let that go to waste. The monster lurched at his twin again. He snapped his jaws together, Stanford reaching up at the last minute to grip the monster’s face and hold him back as he snapped his pincers again and again, inching closer to his nose. The beast was distracted.

Now was his chance.

Stanley stomped onto the Shapeshifter’s arm. Something crunched underneath his sneaker. The monster screamed in agony. He felt a sort of sick satisfaction as he watched it writhe in pain on the ground. It released Stanford, stumbling backwards as it cried out again. Green ooze leaked from his tattered and useless limb.

It was pressed up against the wall, still softly whimpering when Stanley picked up the tranquilizer gun. For a moment he understood the pity his brother had felt for this creature, especially when he knew it wouldn’t recover from this wound so easily. It would probably be scarred for the rest of its life, maybe even crippled.

He glanced to Fiddleford, who laid in the same spot on the ground as before, a small pool of blood forming around his head.

It would be a reminder, he decided. A reminder so the creature knew who it was messing with.

Stanley pulled the trigger.

\---

Stanford heaved himself off the slime covered ground. The bunker was in ruins; desks flipped, papers scattered, as if a small tornado had engulfed the room and spat everything back out in a different place. He calculated a damage toll in his head; countless papers, files, research- all gone, either drenched in green ooze or blood.

His brother was already there. _Must have dropped the gun and ran_ , he thought hazily as he stumbled his way over to the scene. His head felt fuzzy, like time was moving slower, and even though he knew he was sprinting, every step was agonizingly slow.

They were both drenched in blood-- Fiddleford’s blood, still warm, still _fresh_. He kneeled down across from his shaking brother. Stanley held the smaller man close to his chest. The scientist took a deep breath, swallowing his fear.

He could hear his brother muttering, his lips moving quickly.

“I’m such an idiot, I couldn’t even protect him. I can’t do anything right!”

“Lee, listen. I need you to look at me, okay? Just take a deep breath and look at me.”

He placed a hand on his twin’s shoulder. Stanley flinched, eyes still locked on the man in his arms. He had gone silent.

“Stanley, please, I need you to angle him closer to me so I can check his pulse. Okay?”

Stanley nodded, sniffling as he lowered the smaller man from his chest.

Stanford sucked in a deep breath, running two fingers over the faint pulse in the engineer’s neck.

“He’s alive.”

\--

There was a flash of light, illuminating the grey world he wondered through for the past century. Had he been walking for centuries? A chill travelled through him. There were eyes locked on him, billions upon billions of eyes; he could _feel_ them.

The engineer turned, hearing laughter in the distance. Blue light flashed from beyond the tree line. He needed out, he wasn’t ready to be here yet. The world seemed to agree with him.

 _“Yes, get out.”_ The world muttered, shifting around him. “ _Out, out, out ,out! Not ready. Not yet.”_

Everything went black.

Fiddleford felt heavy; as if someone had hastily hollowed out his insides and filled him with cement. Every part of him ached. It rolled through him in waves, tolerable one moment and then unendurable the next. He vaguely registered the voices hovering above him, far off and stretched like they were trying to communicate with him while underwater. He could hardly make out the conversation.

“It’s a head wound, Lee, of course there’s going to be a lot of blood. But look it’s almost stopped by now so that’s a good sign…”

“I don’t- we should take him to the hospital. He hasn’t moved in hours, or said anything, or even opened his eyes, and I know he’s still breathing because _I’ve checked_ _a million times_ but his blood was all over my hands and--! If he has a concussion like you say then we can’t just use the first aid kit.”

“The nearest hospital is 40 miles away and neither of us are in condition to drive like this. What are we going to do, _take a bus_? You could hardly carry him back to the Shack! If we just play it safe, check him for certain symptoms when he gets up, and dose him up on pain medicine, he should be fine. I don’t think it’s _that serious_ of a concussion.”

 _A concussion?_ Fiddleford thought hazily. _That would explain a lot._

“Just because you remember how to deal with head injuries from my boxing days doesn’t mean--!”

“What, do you have a better idea?”

Fighting to with all of his strength to open his heavy eyes, Fiddleford’s eyelids sluggishly lifted. He groaned, the harsh light of the living room blinding him.

“Get the curtains, Stanley. He’s going to be sensitive to light and sound for a few hours.” Fiddleford heard footsteps, which he assumed were the boxer’s, rushing away.

When the room was dim again, Fiddleford lowered his hand, glancing up to see Stanford leaning over him, pressing a cold washcloth over the bandage wrapped around his head.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”


	6. A Step in the Wrong Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio has a difficult time dealing with the guilt of what happened during the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting angsty up in here. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. No trigger warnings this time!

Stanford pushed the button for the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for it to descend into the lab. He glanced back at his assistant who was still pouring over the blueprints in front of him. The doors slid open. The scientist placed a six fingered hand over the sensor.

He paused.

“It’s getting pretty late… Are you sure you want to stay down here, Doc? Lee is making beef stew tonight and I’m sure it will be delicious. Come join us for dinner.”  

Fiddleford gave him a much practiced smile.

“I think I’ll pass. I’ve almost got this schematic done, there’s just one thing missing with the cryochamber, I just need to tweak my design so it can actually sustain life at a freezin’ temperature and then--”

“Fiddleford, you fell asleep in the lab last night. I haven’t seen you at the table in days, it’s like you hardly ever talk to us anymore unless its work related. Are you--?”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, a bit too harshly. Stanford flinched, deepening the lines of worry etched into his face.

“I’m just… busy. You know?” Fiddleford lied, turning back to his blueprints. He heard the door slide shut behind him. The engineer didn’t bother to give a goodbye.

Stanford leaned his back against the wall of the elevator, shutting his tired eyes. He ran a hand over his face.

Ever since the accident with the Shapeshifter, Fiddleford had shut off almost all communication from him and his twin. Stanley was the first to notice the avoidance: how Fiddleford would excuse himself from every conversation, or turn down their offers of movie marathons and board games, all things that normally cheered him up. The scientist didn’t mind it being just him and his brother again, but Fiddleford was the rare sort of friend who was very empathetic of people, maybe a little too much. He had _understood_ Stanford.

Guilt settled heavily within Stanford’s chest. _If only I hadn’t let my guard down, let him get to me, then he wouldn’t have gotten my keys!_ The thought plagued him, as if he didn’t already have enough on his mind with the multiple projects he was constructing. It was the first time he had felt truly guilty in a long time.

Of course, he had no idea _where to begin_ with Stanley’s emotions on the matter. He had followed the engineer around all week like a lost puppy, waiting for any sign of change in the man.

“Speak of the devil…” He muttered to himself as the elevator doors glided open. Stanley sat at the table, his head resting on his arms which laid gloomily folded across the tabletop. The boxer was unshaven, dark circles underlining his eyes; he had seen better days. He perked up at the sound of footsteps, shoulders falling when he realized his brother was alone.

“No luck today?” Stanley called, a hint of hopefulness in his voice. Stanford shook his head.

“He’s gotta come around sometime, Lee. Sooner or later he’s going to march up those stairs and--”

“It’s been 10 days, Stanford, _10 days_! He’s either up in his room or down in the lab and there’s no in-between! He won’t talk to us, he won’t even acknowledge my presence! I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Then why don’t you go talk some sense into him?”

“Are you kidding? He hasn’t said a word to me since Monday, not even when I tried to tell him a joke this morning! I’m the last person he wants to talk to.”

He put his head in his hands with a look of defeat. Stanford pulled up a chair next to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“All the more reason for you to talk to him, then.”

\--

Fiddleford gave a heavy sigh, planting himself down on the edge of his bed. The lights in the house had dimmed one by one; his cue to traverse the Shack uninterrupted by his colleagues. If that’s what he could even call them anymore.

Nothing had been the same since the attack.

He opened his nightstand drawer and retrieved a small flask he had hidden away for trying times. Fiddleford knew he was a lightweight, though he would never admit it aloud. A few swigs would suffice, clearing his head so he could dream easily. He expected the throbbing pain tomorrow, aching deep within his head. But it was a small price to pay for disposing of the lump that arose in his throat every time he remembered the blood soaked floor of the lab and Stanley, leaning over him, looking overcome with… What was it? Fear? Woe? The man’s bloodshot eyes as he changed the engineer’s bandages? Fiddleford tried not to linger on the subject to long, nursing his flask.

He had already had a few sips, just enough to loosen his tongue, when he heard knuckles rapping against his bedroom door. He expected the worst.

“Come in.” He called, fighting to keep his voice nonchalant.

 Stanley meandered through the frame, shutting the door behind him with a gentle timidness. The boxer took his place next to Fiddleford, sitting down next to him like they had so many nights before on the sofa. Fiddleford cringed at the memory, refusing to let the familiarity of the scene overtake him.

Silence weighed heavily on the two. The boxer glanced from Fiddleford to the alcohol before holding out his hand expectantly. Fiddleford bit his cheek, wordlessly passing the tin flask. Stanley took a long swig.

“Why are you here?” Fiddleford said, digging his nails into the bed sheet.

“You’ve been distant. I’m- Stanford and I have been worried about you.”

He said nothing. He would not let his emotions push him over the edge this time. Not again.

“Please, at least tell me what’s wrong. Fidds…”

Fiddleford shrunk back at the word. He wanted to scream a million different answers. Like how fucking hard it was to pull himself away from the man, or how wracked with guilt he was or every other thought on his mind with no repercussions. But his mouth refused to move, opening and closing as his stomach churned. The engineer felt like he was going to collapse in on himself.

Stanley grabbed his hand. Fiddleford snatched it away, failing to ignore the wounded look in the boxer’s eyes. His heart plummeted.

“I’m trying to help.”  Stanley pleaded, steadily growing louder to hide the crack in his voice.

“Well it’s not working.” Fiddleford growled in response.

“What am I supposed to do?” Stanley asked incredulously, rising from his spot to tower over the smaller man, “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing while you work yourself to death!” He was yelling now. Fiddleford averted his eyes as he folded in on himself.

“You won’t talk to anyone, or come up into the living room. You won’t even _look at me_ anymore! I don’t know what to do and I’m trying to help, but you won’t even let me do that! _Just tell me how I can help.”_

“Are you a complete moron?”

The silence was deafening. Stanley took a step back.

“Why in the world would you think that I needed _your_ _useless help_?” Fiddleford hissed. “I don’t need anyone. And I certainly don’t need _you_.” He snarled the last word with such venom that even he, himself, was taken aback. Fiddleford _knew_ he shouldn’t have said that; the engineer regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth. His chest heaved as he tried to regain his composure.

_“Well?”_

Stanley’s face fell, becoming a mixture of hurt and controlled rage Fiddleford only saw him display when he was about to storm off. He had struck a nerve, effectively dealing a blow to the boxer without lifting a finger.

“God damn, Fidds,” Stanley managed to get out through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, “why are you being so… So--”

“ _-so cowardly?_ ” Fiddleford spat. The larger man opened his mouth to continue but Fiddleford wouldn’t allow it.

“Did you ever stop to think about how I feel?” Fiddleford’s voice grew louder. Stanley fell silent, gazing at him with wide, brown eyes.

“How _fucking_ _awful_ it is to be the weak one? How you two always have to rush to protect me? How _useless_ I am? The other day with the Shapeshifter, I could have gotten Stanford killed! I could have gotten _you_ killed!”

He briefly realized he was crying, but he pushed on, tears streaming down his face, “I’m so- so foolish. It was so unbelievably obvious that it wasn’t you but I didn’t notice because--!” Fiddleford hiccupped. He knew he was trembling and how absolutely _pitiful_ he must have looked but he couldn’t stop the onslaught of words tumbling out of his mouth, his voice sounded more defeated by the second.

“He could have broken out and destroyed the whole town and it’s all because I couldn’t get a grip on my idiotic emotions.”

Stanley wrapped his arms around the smaller man, hugging Fiddleford close to his chest.

“I know what you mean.”

Fiddleford paused for a second, growing rigid. Did the man know what he meant? Had he seen straight through him?

 “You just trust too easily, Fidds…”

The engineer’s shoulders fell. He slumped against the larger man. Stanley Pines was as dense as ever.

Fiddleford wanted to tell Stanley how utterly wrong he was. He wanted to shriek about how it’s because he loves him, and he has for a long time, and how it’s _eating away at him_. His world was crashing down around him and he couldn’t even begin to _fathom_ that he was in Stanley’s arms. He wanted to rattle off a list of all the wonderful things about the man in front of him; how he’s got a bigger heart than anybody else if you got past his tough exterior, that he lights up a room and people are just naturally drawn to him, that Stanley everything he’s ever wanted because he is everything Fiddleford _isn’t_.

Instead he just pressed his face against Stanley’s chest, sobbing harder as the arms around him hugged him tighter.

“It’s okay Fiddleford, you’re a fantastic person, better than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re not cowardly, you’re not useless...” Stanley mumbled as he rested his chin on top of Fiddleford’s head, snuggling into his sandy blond hair. The man didn’t understand _at all._

“I hate you, Stanley Pines.” Fiddleford managed to choke out between sobs.

“You don’t mean that…”

He didn’t.

It was the worst lie he had ever told. But he stayed silent.

Fiddleford didn’t know how they ended up lying on his bed, or when Stanley had started stroking his hair. He wept until he felt empty, until he had nothing left to cry over. They laid in silence long after the smaller man had stopped sniffling.

Finally, Fiddleford untangled himself from Stanley and, unable to make eye contact with the boxer, left the room.

He gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror, recoiling at his disheveled appearance. Hot shame washed over him from the scene he had just made. The boxer must have hated him. Fiddleford splashed his face with cold water, rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes and patting down his messy hair.

By the time he had got back to the room, Stanley was gone.

\--

Fiddleford tore open the box of cereal, haphazardly pouring its contents into the bowl in front of him. He yawned, scarcely noticing the two sets of feet thudding down the stairs, locked in a heated, whispered debate that suddenly halted at the kitchen doorway. He was determined to pretend like nothing had happened.

He glanced over his shoulder, getting a glimpse of the Pines twins’ surprised faces.

“Howdy fellas, y’all are up early.” Fiddleford commented as he reached into the fridge.

“Hold that thought, Fidds.” He could practically hear the smile in Stanley’s voice.

“I say, we go out to the diner for breakfast today, my treat.”

“But I just finished pouring the milk.”

“Forget about it,” Stanley exclaimed, hooking an arm around Fiddleford and his grinning brother’s shoulders, “this is a special occasion!”

\--

Breakfast was a sacred as a holiday to the Pines family; Fiddleford had learned to just go along with it. They treated it like a feast. So naturally, when they had gotten seated at a booth in the diner, Stanley had ordered them a breakfast platter worthy of kings.

Stanford scanned the menu once the perky waitress had departed with their orders, eyes growing wider with each line.

“There’s _no way_ you can afford all of that!”

Stanley bit his lip, trying to fight the sly smile that spread across his lips.

“Oh, God,” Fiddleford and Stanford both quietly sighed, knowing that look a little too well.

“Alright, whose wallet did you pickpocket this time?” Stanford demanded, bringing his voice to a whisper.

“Yours.”

\--

Stanford sat on the sidewalk outside the diner, exhaling sizable clouds of smoke as he waited for his brother to _stop flirting with the waitress at the register and hurry his ass out to the car._ The man beside him wasn’t much better; Fiddleford continued to steal glances through the dinner’s windows, looking forlornly from Stanley to the woman with too much blue eye shadow.

“What, are you jealous?” Stanford joked, shooting a smile in his companion’s direction.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, taking a long sip of his drink. Despite his divert of the question--something he must have picked up from Lee, Stanford noted--the engineer’s gaze remained locked on the pair inside. Placing his cigarette on the sidewalk, the scientist reached into his coat pocket, taking out the journal labelled ‘1’.

He flipped to what he liked to refer to as the ‘What the Hell is Going on Between Fiddleford and My Brother’ page.

He had been taking notes, as he did in field studies, over the two. They we’re both a painful mixture of obvious and oblivious, a trait that pushed people away, but somehow brought them closer together. It was hilarious, watching the two carefully navigate around each other, not to mention fascinating. Despite their rough start, the pair’s friendship had flourished into something entirely different.

As much as he loved watching them run around, carefully avoiding their feelings, he would be obliged to help. If one of them could ever swallow their pride and ask him for it, that is. He shut his journal, watching the engineer’s posture change as Stanley left the woman.

The bell above the dinner door rang. Fiddleford jumped to his feet.

“That took you long enough.”

“What are you, my mother?”

Stanford snickered at their banter as he pocketed the journal. He couldn't help the knowing, smug grin that spread across his face.

What a couple of fools.


	7. Fishing Buddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley attempts to fix things with a day on the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for almost drowning and minor violence.

Fiddleford glanced down derisively at the fishing pole in his hands.

“We’re doing _what?_ ”

“Fishing!” both twins replied, grins spreading across their faces. Fiddleford cringed at the idea of him in a small boat, especially in the unknown waters of the Gravity Falls Lake. He had been fishing with his father in the past, but that had been years ago, before he had even moved from the rural south.

“I-I’d rather not. I know next to nothin’ about fishin’ and I get sea sick easily and--”

“Excuses, excuses,” Stanley waved his hand in the air as if he were swatting the words right out of the air.

“I’ll teach ya how to fish and we won’t rock the boat _that much_.” Fiddleford was sure there was some sort of innuendo the boxer was implying, but he elected to ignore it.

“And,” Stanford added, clasping his hands together gleefully, “This is for research, so I would prefer if a _certain lab assistant_ tagged along. At least to keep us from toppling the boat over and killing each other.” The engineer sighed, knowing his plans for tinkering with robots all day were ruined. Even if he turned them down, he was sure that he would end up in the boat regardless.

“Fine.” He muttered, defeated.

“Monster hunt!” Stanley cheered, throwing his hands into the air. Stanford flashed a smile at his assistant. Fiddleford didn't return the gesture.

It was going to be a long day.

\--

The boat was small, much smaller than he had expected. Surely, with the amount of money Stanford had with his research grant, he could get a decent boat and write it off as part of his experiments. _But no_. It was wooden, rickety, and had ‘Stan O’ War” painted sloppily on the side in white.

Fiddleford gripped his seat as another ship got precariously close and sent waves crashing into the side of their boat. He felt a large hand rest on the small of his back.

“Yeesh, take it easy, nerd. It’s just a couple of waves.”

“I’m fine.” Fiddleford snapped. Stanley flinched, taking his hand away.

Although the recent weeks had somewhat helped to fix their friendship after the fight, there still remained an air of tension between the three of them.

“Oh,” The boxer cleared his throat, “I almost forgot the hats!” He reached into the tackle box and retrieved three, tan hats. He plopped one on his brother’s head (“Hey! I’m trying to steer here!”), and handed another to Fiddleford before placing one on his own head.

Fiddleford turned it over in his hands, the floppy bill bunching up in his palms. The center read ‘Fidds’ in large, patchwork, multicolored letters. He blinked.

“Did you make these yourself, Stan?” He asked, astonished.

“Well, I embroidered them.” Stanley said sheepishly as he returned to his seat. Fiddleford quirked an eyebrow. It was hard to conjure the image of big, tough Stanley Pines sewing. He placed it on his head, much to the delight of the other man.

“I think we’re out far enough to begin our search--” Stanford paused at his brother’s sharp glare, “-and go fishing!”

He took his hand off the motor. The boat came to a halt, much to Fiddleford’s chagrin, in the middle of the lake.

“Alright!” Stanley proclaimed as he rubbed his hands together and stood, “time to break out the ol’ fishing p--” he was stopped short as something struck the bottom of their boat, causing it to convulse. Fiddleford latched onto one of the boxer’s arms, hugging onto it for dear life.

“I knew there was a lake monster!” Stanford cried, peering over the side of the boat.

“Calm down, poindexter, it was just a big wave.”`

“I don’t care what the hell it was,” Fiddleford yelled, holding on tighter, “just get me off this thing!”

“What, are you afraid of the water?” Stanley asked, turning his attention down to the engineer with a sigh. Fiddleford didn’t answer. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of the water, just the fact that he couldn’t escape if he needed to. There was at least a mile of water between him and the nearest shore, not to mention that he wasn’t exactly the best swimmer. There was nowhere to run; it was a coward’s worst nightmare.

“Come on,” Stanford reassured, looking up from his notepad, “we won’t let anything bite you. Just relax, stay awhile, and maybe help me look for this giant sea monster that is in the lake and probably has been stuck here for 100 years.”

“And, we haven’t even started fishing! Just stick around for a bit, Fidds.”

 _Curse those big brown eyes_ , Fiddleford thought to himself. They always seemed to coerce him into the worst situations.

He was only half way through with a begrudged agreement when Stanley shoved the fishing pole into his hands. The man had half a mind to throw the damn thing on the ground. He frowned, briefly considering it. Would his actions be worth a set of twins’ amount of hostility directed at him?

Fiddleford looked from the thin pole to the small crank on the side, pulling it closer to himself.

He was a robotic engineer; in theory, fishing shouldn’t be a problem.

“You just click this button, cast, and release. And then you wait for the fish to bite! Look, I even put on a bobber so you know if more timid fish are trying to swindle you.” The larger man explained as he easily sank his hook into the water a good 30 feet ahead of them. Stanford asked for him to repeat the instructions, obvious that it had been a long time since he himself had accompanied his brother.

 _No wonder Stanley seemed so excited_ , the engineer contemplated. He knew very little about the brothers' separation; the only information he had been able to get out of the two came from arguments and late night musings. From what he had gathered, the split had been a dismaying one. But from he could tell, he thought as the other two occupied themselves with horseplay, things were okay again.

Fiddleford failed with his first cast, altogether forgetting to let go of the button. The second time wasn’t much better, as he caught his hook in Stanford’s hat. _This should be easy!_ He yelled in his head, grip tightening in anger on the handle. _Maybe I’m just overthinking this…_

His third cast soared across the lake, landing with a satisfying splash in the water. Stanley flashed him a proud grin. Fiddleford’s stomach did a flip, briefly realizing that he probably shouldn’t like pleasing the other so much. But _god damn_ , did he enjoy the praise he received.

They sat in content silence, Fiddleford looking out over the lake. It was a beautiful day; the sun was present but not beating down on them like it so often did in the summer. A small breeze blew over the lake, keeping them cool against the calm waters. He could get used to this, even if the boat was small.

Fiddleford realized that he actually _enjoyed_ fishing. It was calming, peaceful. While he’d much rather have his hands deep inside a circuit panel, it was nice to finally relax. He was just surprised that Stanley adored the activity so much. He didn’t seem like the type who liked to sit still. But that was Stanley, capricious and compulsive as ever.

“Wanna hear a joke?” The boxer questioned, waking Fiddleford from his thoughts.

“Oh no.” Stanford muttered. “Don’t get him started.”

“Alright, here goes!” Stanley cleared his throat.

“What did the pirate say when he turned 80?”

“What?” Fiddleford humored him, glancing over to a pained Stanford, who mouthed along with the punchline as if he had heard this joke a thousand times before.

“Aye-matey!”

They groaned and rolled their eyes as Stanley cackled.

“What did one twin say to the other?”

“Please, don’t--”

“There’s not enough _womb_ in here for the two of us!” As much as Stanford and Fiddleford acted like they were disappointed with his awful jokes, they couldn’t keep the smiles of their faces.

“So two satellites decided to get married…” Stanley managed to get out between deep chuckles.

“The wedding wasn’t much, but the reception was incredible!” Fiddleford found himself laughing at that one, holding his hands against the stitch in his side. It was the first time he had laughed that hard since the fight. He didn’t have to open his eyes to feel the boxer’s warm smile beaming down on him.  

The fishing pole in his lap jerked. Fiddleford snapped out of his happy daze and grabbed onto the handle.

“Hey, the Doc’s got a bite!” Stanford called, looking over to the smaller scientist.

“Alright, Fidds! Just keep a steady hold on the pole and reel it in!”

The pole in his hands curved in on itself as he leaned back, trying to fight the fish. The crank spun agonizingly slow, locking up against the strength of the creature. Something wasn’t right. And as soon as it had come, the pressure was gone. His line had gone slack again. Fiddleford frowned, a bit disappointed in himself.

“Ah, it’s okay, nerd. You’ll get it next time. It takes practice to be able to reel in a big fish on the fir--”

“I got one!” Stanford yelled as his line tensed. He tilted back, one foot placed against the edge of the boat as the pole bended.

“Whoa!” He screamed as he lurched forward, Stanley grabbing his arm in the nick of time to keep his brother from toppling overboard.

“She’s feisty!”

“Put it in the rod holder!” Stanley directed his brother to what Fiddleford had assumed earlier to be a defective cup holder. It slipped into place. The boat gave a shaky jerk forward. And then another.

“Uh, Lee… I don’t think this is--”

The boat hurled through the water at a breakneck pace.

“Turn off the motor!”

“The motor _is_ off!”

They screamed in panic, gripping tightly to the boat as it skid across the water, gaining speed. Tears ripped from Fiddleford’s eyes at the harsh onslaught of wind beat against his face, droplets of water stinging as they made impact with his skin. He took back everything he had said before. _I hate fishing, I hate fishing, I hate fishing_ , he repeated in his head as if it would fix the situation.

“Do something!” He shrieked, grabbing onto Stanley’s shoulder for support.

“On it!” The boxer replied, his voice lost in the wind. He pushed himself towards his brother, wind whipping through his hair. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a pocket knife and flicked it open.                      

“Lee, no! The lake monster! My research--!” Stanford boomed, blocking his twin’s path. Stanley shouldered him out of the way, snatching up the fishing pole.

He slashed his knife into the line.

It snapped.

The boat came to a sudden halt, throwing the trio forwards.

Fiddleford pushed himself up as the boat tipped precariously to one side, water seeping over the side. With a yelp, he stumbled backwards to the other side of the ship.

“Fidds, don’t--!” The weight of the craft shifted.

The boat toppled.

Fiddleford hit the surface of the lake. The icy water left him frozen in shock as he sank deeper. Disorientated from the impact, the engineer squinted into the depths, trying decipher up from down. Darkness stretched in both directions. The engineer couldn’t make out a thing.

His lungs burned; he needed to get out and quick. A moment of genius struck him. Fiddleford exhaled the last bit of air from his lungs and watched as the bubbles drifted towards the surface. He scrambled after them, his coat weighing him down as he paddled.

Fiddleford breached the surface, gasping for air. His eyes fixed on the overturned boat. He clutched onto the underside, trying to pull himself up the slimy, water logged, wood, only to slide down and revert any accomplishment he had made in climbing it. Fiddleford groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering every curse word he knew. Where was the lake monster? Or, better yet, _where were Stanford and Stanley?_

As if to answer his silent plea, a head bobbed to the surface, and then another. Both brothers, gasping and sputtering as they swam towards the engineer. Waterlogged, the twins grappled onto the hull next to him and-- _Oh wow, Stanley’s hair looks nice like that_ , Fiddleford found himself eying the way his disheveled bangs, normally slicked back neatly against his skull, fell in front of the boxer’s eyes. The engineer gritted his teeth together, forcing the invasive thought from his mind.

He was absolutely _furious_.

“The boat is safe!” Fiddleford sneered as he made another failed attempt to scale the slick boat, “Don’t worry _Fidds_ , everything will be okay! We won’t even get wet! Just a day of fishing, my ass!”

“Don’t blame me!” Stanley countered, throwing up an arm in disbelief.

“If it wasn’t for your _brilliant idea_ , we wouldn’t even be here in the first place!”

“I just wanted to go fishing!” Stanley spat, moving closer to get up in Fiddleford’s face, “That’s all! If you’re gonna blame anyone, then blame Ford and his dumb rip-off of Nessie!”

“Excuse me? It’s _my_ fault?” Stanford joined in, incredulous, “I’m sorry that I wanted to study the unknown and write down my discoveries _like I’m supposed to!_ Some of us have _jobs,_ Stanley _!_ ”

“Yeah, Stanley, don’t try and push all the blame on him!”

“Oh, what? Like how you’re pushing it on me? You didn’t have to tag along, Fiddleford!”

“ _You made me--“_

“Both of you pull you head out of your asses!”

Stanley rounded on his brother, “Pull your head out of your massive fucking ego! You’re the one with his face always buried in his research! It’s almost like you care more about science than you do about--”

Fiddleford screamed shrilly, floundering in the water.

“Something touched my foot!”

The argument halted as all men looked to the water below them.

“Flip the boat.”

“Flip the boat!” Stanford echoed urgently as he saw a dark shadow slowly move beneath them. Stanley dove into the water. He resurfaced a moment later with a paddle from the interior of the boat and used it to flip the small ship upright again. With some difficulty, they managed to climb in. Fiddleford refused to meet anyone’s gaze.

Something tapped the boat again. It shuddered against the disturbed surface of the lake.

“Engine’s shot!” Stanley called, tossing his twin an oar, “We’re gonna have to paddle her to shore.”

“Just do it quickly!” Fiddleford muttered, watching over the side of the boat for any signs of the monster.

“I’m sorry, would _you_ like to paddle instead?” Stanley snapped. Fiddleford gave no reply; the boxer took that as a “No.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as something long and sharp dragged against the bottom of the boat, creating a high pitched squeal. The engineer’s eyes widened in fear.

“Let’s just go! There will be time to scream at each other on shore.” Stanford advised grimly as he sunk his oar into the lake. Stanley followed in suit, the vessel slowly picking up in speed as the two worked in rhythm.

The shadow edged closer and rose out of the water long enough to flash its massive, green tail, before ramming into the boat again and diving back down. Fiddleford gulped, already spotting cracks in the hull. They were running out of time.

Another hit.

The boat began to leak, flooding the bottom with water. They were so close to shore, they could make it if they could only had a few minutes-

Fiddleford looked up in hushed awe as the creature finally reared its ugly head. Its eyes were placed far apart on either side of its boxy skull, scales the color of decaying algae covered it from snout to the tip of its tail. Its mouth opened, displaying rows upon rows of sharp teeth.

And with a sickening jolt, he realized they weren’t going to make it.

It smashed an enormous, clawed flipper into the center of the boat, between the twins and the engineer. Stanley held out a hand, but Fiddleford only pressed further back into the wood, glued to the spot. The monster plunged back down into the deep, scavenging the already sunken planks from the doomed vessel as the rest of it capsized. Fiddleford clutched onto a piece of driftwood, searching for the beast.

“We’re gonna have to swim for it!” Stanley called urgently, suddenly surfacing from his side.

“There’s no way we’re gonna make it! We’re _literally_ dead in the water.” Fiddleford choked as he released the debris.

So much had happened over the past week, he hadn’t even apologized for screaming at the man. There were too many words left unsaid, and now they were all going to die before he had the chance to fix things.

“Yes, we _will_. Start swimmin’, I’ve got your back.” Stanley hastily wiped away the tears from the engineer’s eyes with a thumb, “Just go.” Fiddleford nodded, glancing at the water as Stanford reemerged.

“It’s coming! We better hurry!” He cried. A renewed sense of hope flared up in Fiddleford’s chest. He had never been a strong swimmer, _but god damn it,_ he was going to try.The engineer pushed his arms against the water, propelling himself towards the beach.

As if on cue, the lake monster resurfaced. Stanford took the opportunity to slam the heel of his boot into its snout. It fell back, dazed.

“It’s like a shark! It’s--”

“Science lessons later, running for our lives _now_ _!_ ” Fiddleford interrupted, pulling the man away by his shirt collar. He swam faster, ignoring the bone-deep ache in his limbs as his muscles stung. The ground was becoming less steep below them as it met with the shore, reaching up to greet them like an old friend.

The creature roared, signaling the end of its confusion. It sped after them.

Fiddleford felt sand beneath his feet. He stood, making the rest of the way to the beach in a mad dash against the tug of the water, the lake monster following closely behind him.

The engineer collapsed on the beach, chest heaving. He pushed himself up from the gritty sand as the beast screeched again, trapped past the shallow end. It let out a great, indignant huff, before it submerged, disappearing for good.

Fiddleford pulled himself to his feet, shakily exchanging glances with the two brothers beside him. Silence fell on the beach, but only for a moment. The trio erupted into cheers, throwing their fists into the air in triumph.

“We made it!”

“We’re not dead!”

“I kicked a sea monster in the face!”

Stanley swept Fiddleford up in a tight hug, both laughing as he picked the smaller man off the ground and spun him around. The engineer’s heart fluttered in his chest. Stanley set the engineer back down right as Stanford tackled them both into an embrace.

“The Mystery Trio survives yet another adventure!” Stanley shouted in victory. Fiddleford made a face.

“We really need to come up with a better name.”

“What, it’s not _fancy_ enough for you?”

A grin spread across the boxers face as he egged him on.

“I’ll have you know that--”

He was cut off as Stanford erupted into a loud bout of laughter. He clutched his stomach, leaning over as Fiddleford and Stanley swapped glances of curiosity. The scientist stood once he had composed himself, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s just get in the car and head home so we can put this nightmare of a day behind us.”

They were both making progress, Stanford noted. He was glad to finally see the two back to their old selves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the angst I put you guys through last week, I hope you enjoyed this lighter chapter! More to come soon!


	8. Demon Deals and Bad Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Stanley thinks will be a fun little joke to hold over his brother's head, ends up ruining their day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. This took way longer than expected. Mostly because I edited for three days straight, trying to cut it down. Even still, its about 20 pages long on a Word document, so enjoy this extra long chapter for the extra long wait. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Gore, blood, violence, a short reference to abuse, and lots of crying. Geez, I really hurt everyone in this one.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Hey Ford? Mind if I borrow Fidds for a second?”

“I can hear you. I’m sitting right here.” Fiddleford mumbled, raising an eyebrow. Since when did Stan _ask_ before dragging the engineer out of the lab?

“Sure, yeah. Just bring him back in one piece.” Stanford answered, not bothering to look up from his microscope. Stanley nodded, shooting the engineer a crooked grin before motioning for him to follow. Fiddleford stood, telling himself he was only following the boxer’s instructions because he was curious and certainly not anything else. The man opened his mouth to send a dry, sarcastic comment Stanley’s way when the boxer hushed him, nodding to Ford. Fiddleford got the message: keep quiet until we’re out of range.

Stanley led him around a corner to a more secluded part of the lab. The walls were lined with buzzing, blinking machinery. They could talk freely.

“Okay, what do you want?” Fiddleford questioned.

“You.”

The engineer blinked.

“W-What?”

Stanley’s expression changed from sly to embarrassed in a flash. He cleared his throat.

“What I mean is, I need your help. But, in order to do that, I’m gonna have to let you in on a little secret.”

Fiddleford quickly recovered, mortified that for even a moment he had indulged in the thought that the man had returned his feelings. Stanley didn’t miss a beat. He reached inside of his jacket and retrieved a book he had kept pressed to his side.

He flipped the cover over, flashing the golden handprint for the engineer to see. He paused. What was so fancy about another one of Stanford’s journals? Then his eyes caught the number on the front.

“Three? I thought Stanford only had two?”

“I’m not the only professional liar in the family.”

He turned the inside to Fiddleford, flipping through the pages so the man could get a glimpse at the papers and the neat ink writing adorning each page.

“But,” Stanley turned the book back to himself, “this isn’t just another research journal.” The boxer’s smile grew much smugger.

“Ford’s been writing poetry.”

“No. Way.” Fiddleford’s jaw could have hit the floor with how fast it dropped. A grin slowly spread over his face. Stanley nodded, a small laugh escaping his lips.

“He used to do it throughout high school, after Ma told him women found it ‘ _sensitive and intelligent’_. Apparently, he has _continued_ to write this shit.” Stanley fought to keep his voice down, excitement sparking in his eyes. Fiddleford pressed a hand to his mouth to keep quiet, his eyes squeezed shut as his body shook with silent laughter.

“Okay, but that’s not even the nerdiest part about this: he put it in some sort of code. But it’s definitely poetry, I can practically smell the flowery language coming off the page.”

“So you want me to decode it so we can poke fun at him?” Fiddleford reached for the book, but Stanley snatched it back, holding it out of reach.

“Yes, but I won’t tease him _that_ much… Just a little when his ego gets too big. It’ll be just some harmless fun.” Fiddleford folded his arms over his chest. On one hand, he probably shouldn’t get involved in sibling rivalries, but on the other hand, it would be hilarious to see what Ford had been writing. Just one peek wouldn’t hurt, _right?_

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Stanley’s face lit up. Fiddleford should have known he wouldn’t stand a chance of saying ‘no’ from the start.

“Alright,” He said after he grabbed his cipher and sat down on the cold cement floor, “I want you to read aloud the words or letters and I’ll write ‘em down and transcribe ‘em as we go. It might take a few read-throughs, because it may very well be a mixture of a few of these if Stanford never wanted this found.” Stanley nodded, taking a seat across from the engineer. He crossed his legs, balancing the book precariously on his lap.

“Ready?” The larger called with quiet eagerness. Fiddleford shuffled his papers so they all lay about before him.

“Ready.”

“’Corpus Levitas’-- Geez that sounds dark…” Fiddleford looked over his notes. He frowned. It was strange that they were actual words, and not separate letters or symbols. Had the man upgraded to a more secure code system without notifying him?

“Diablo Dominum…” Fiddleford sat back. Where had he heard this before? Maybe it was transcribed in a foreign language? It sounded like his Intro To Latin class from way back when.

And then it clicked.

“Stanley, wait--!”

“Mondo Vicium.” 

Fiddleford surged forward, slamming the book shut and snatching it from the boxer’s hands. The engineer had gone white as a ghost. Stanley shot him a peculiar look.

“Please tell me you didn’t finish the line.”

“Fidds, what’s--“

“It’s an incantation! In Latin! I think we just summon-- Ah!”

The ground beneath their feet violently shuttered. Papers flew across the shaking basement; glass shattered. Fiddleford fell forward, tightly shutting his eyes and bracing his hands over his head.

The earthquake subsided.

Fiddleford lowered his hands, cracking open an eye to gaze at the wreckage. He couldn’t see the main room, or how bad of shape the portal was in, but the part of the lab he was in at the moment had taken very little damage. Only the table in the far corner had toppled over. He pressed his hands against the ground to steady himself, reeling back when it took a quick intake of breath.

He glanced beneath him; Stanley’s back was pinned to the floor, his wide eyes staring at Fiddleford, perched above him. The engineer’s brain short circuited. He was locked to the spot, heat creeping into his face as he stared down in mortification at the man he was straddling.

It was the perfect moment for Stanford to march into the room. Fiddleford’s head shot up, locking eyes with the other man. The scientist shrieked, clamping his hands over his eyes before turning around completely.

“Am I interrupting something here?!”

“No!” Fiddleford assured, scrambling off of the boxer with a yelp.

“He just fell. Relax, Ford.” Stanley brushed it off, but even so, Fiddleford kept his eyes glued to the floor. He could feel the man’s gaze burning into him. The scientist turned back around with a sigh.

“You two felt those tremors right?”

The boxer opened his mouth to answer his brother, but was cut off when Stanford gasped. His look of worry changed to outrage. He snatched up the journal, holding it close to his chest as he glared accusingly at the two.

“Who snuck into my room and stole my things?”

“Listen, poindexter, I can explain--“

“You _deliberately_ broke my lock, searched through my things, and stole from me, Stanley! I’ve had it up to here with y--“

A loud crash sounded upstairs, followed by the unmistakable noise of something hitting the floor and shattering.

The trio froze, three pairs of eyes focused on the ceiling.

“What in the world was that?” Fiddleford breathed, the lamps above his head swinging wildly.

No one answered him. Rather, the brothers locked eyes, giving each other a short head nod before heading for the door. The engineer was almost jealous of how well they could communicate without words. He trailed behind them, pausing at the base of the stairs.

“Y’all are just gonna run up there without another thought?”

“Well, yeah. You expect us to just sit around while somethin’ is in the house?” Stanley answered him as he started up the steps.

Fiddleford wrung his hands together. Those two would get themselves killed without him.

With a frustrated groan, he rushed after them, coming to the top just as the scientist reached for the door handle.

The kitchen was eerily quiet. The setting sun outside illuminated the room a dark red; that, coupled with the smear of mud across the floor made Fiddleford’s hair stand on end. Stanford was the first to move, peering out into the hallways before snapping back against the wall. He glanced urgently between to the other two, pressing a finger to his lips.

Fiddleford moved to see what Stanford was so worried about, placing a hand against the wall to peek around it.

A figure lumbered through the doorframe, barely a silhouette outlined against the darkness. It groan, stumbling back as its shoulder clipped the frame. It stared blankly at the obstacle for a moment before pushing on in a slow, uneven gait. Whatever it was, it was no means intelligent.

The creature turned its head. The engineer’s heart stopped. It had caught sight of him. Fiddleford fell back against the wall, horror filling his face as he stared at the brothers. It moaned again, its slapping, discordant footsteps approaching them.

It rounded the corner, displaying its square teeth. It was manlike, though the person in question seemed to be decaying in on himself. Slabs of flesh sagged, discolored and putrid from its limbs, scraggly nails reaching out for them. It roared.

Fiddleford screamed.

Stanley promptly punched it in the face.

The man’s head rolled back with a crack, before coming off altogether and rolling across the wooden floor.

Stanley screamed.

Stanford slapped a hand across both of their mouths.

“Shut up! Zombies rely mostly on hearing because of their terrible eyes sight! Do you want to alert _more_?”

The scientist let his hands drop as the two quieted down.

“Zombies?” Fiddleford muttered, looking like he was about to faint.

“I guess Ford’s poetry was awful enough to raise the dead.”

“Poetry?” Stanford sputtered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. “You thought that was-?! It was a summoning spell, Lee! For raising the dead! And guess what you did?”

“Raised the dead.” Stanley sighed, defeated.

“Uh, fellas…” Fiddleford voice shook as he pointed out the window, to the shambling figures emerging from the forest. The front porch creaked. Their heads snapped to the living room in unison, scrambling through the doorway. Stanford threw open the front door.

There was a woman, her left eye hanging by a tendril from her socket, tattered clothes falling off of her bony frame. She made a guttural noise; the scientist silenced her as he kicked out, boot making contact square in her chest. She flew back, rolling down the porch steps.

“Put the furniture against the door! It won’t hold on its own. ” He shouted, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

Fiddleford tottered restlessly from foot to foot, wringing his hands as he tried to assess the situation. Stanley nudged his shoulder, pulling him out of his dazed state of self-collapse.

“C’mon.” He said quietly. He had learned when the man was on the brink of an anxiety attack to treat him gently. He guided the engineer along, the man practically stepping on his heels with his proximity to the boxer. Stanley grabbed one end of the couch, nodding for the smaller man to get the other side. The boxer pushed while he pulled, fixing the couch against the door. Fiddleford took a step back as Stanley wedged it under the door hand.

Something crashed against the door. The hinges groaned at the sudden pressure. Stanford placed the coffee table over the couch as the door took another hit. Fiddleford backed away slowly, unknowing of how close he was getting to the window.

The glass behind him fractured with a crack; the engineer wasn’t fast enough to jump away before a rotting hand snaked around his neck.

The jagged shards cut deep into his face as he was jerked back. Words escaped him; he couldn’t even bring himself to scream. Stanford whipped around, snatching the thing’s wrist and pulling back as Fiddleford clawed at the fingers over his mouth, the putrid scent of decay filling his nose. With a sickening snap, the thing’s shoulder dislocated, and came off all together. Stanford stumbled backwards at the sudden release; Fiddleford crumpled to the floor.

His hands rushed to the searing pain stabbing through his cheek, palms jolting back, open flesh burning at the dirt on his hand. The feeling spread, engulfing his face in an intense, pulsing ache. Fiddleford clenched his teeth together to keep from crying out in agony. He screwed his eyes shut, tensing as he applied pressure to the wound again. He had to stop the blood flow, even if it meant him facing moments of soul deep agony.

Stanley was upon him in a moment’s notice, moving his hands away from his face. Fiddleford hissed in despair as warm summer air washed over his pulsing flesh. He clamped his hands back down over his face, ignoring the twinge. _Anything_ was better than that.

“Fidds, I need you to move your hands.” The boxer coaxed, hands still placed firmly on his wrists, “I can’t tell how bad it is if I can’t see it.” Fiddleford shook his head, shutting his eyes tightly as tears threatened to spill. The last thing he needed was salt in his wound.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine. I just need to see how deep it is. Please, it will only take a second.” Fiddleford swallowed thickly. This was going to _hurt._

He jerked his hands away before he could have more time to think on it, drawing blood from his lip as he bit down. Stanley grimaced above him. Fiddleford began to tremble, digging his short nails into his palm to distract the pain. He couldn’t take it. A small whimper escaped his lips as he clamped his palms against the injury.

“What happened?” Stanford demanded, fixing his glasses as he leaned down with his brother.

“The glass cut him all the way across his cheek. Clipped his ear too and a couple of other places.” Stanley’s voice was low. “But this one, its deep Ford, real deep. Not too wide, but it might need stitchin’.” Fiddleford grimaced. He had stitched a person up once in his life, and the situation had been no less dire. But he was almost positive he couldn’t do it on himself.

The engineer opened his eyes, after the pain had subsided somewhat. The boxer was propping his head off the ground with hand, fingers coiled around his bloodied blond locks. He groaned, forcing himself to sit up. It was just a face wound, and even though it stung like hell when he finally removed his hand, he would still be able to walk.

Stanley sat back on his heels, frown twitching in rage.

“Where is that fucker? I’ll kill him. I mean, he’s already dead, but I’ll send him back to his grave myself.”

“I think we need to focus on the big picture here.” Fiddleford voiced finally, pulling himself up on shaky legs. “Like how we’ve managed to barricade ourselves into a house in the middle of the zombie infested woods.”

Stanford’s face fell. He hadn’t thought of that.

“If we can just build up the doors and windows a bit more, we should be safe until I can consult--“ he stopped himself, clearing his throat, “Until I can figure out what to do.”

“The dead’s knocking on our front door, Ford! They want to drag us back to down to hell with them. We can’t just sit here.” Stanley reached into the couch, pulling a bat from beneath its cushions.

“We’re gonna have to fight our way out.”            

“That’s insane!” Fiddleford jumped in. “There must be hundreds of them. Do you know how many people have died in this dangerous forest since before people even settled in Oregon?”

The other window shattered, five zombies crowded around, all trying to get in at the same time. At least their stupidity slowed them down. The couch inched forward, the door opening just enough for a group of hands to reach through, snatching at the air desperately.

They were trapped, surrounded on all sides.

“Looks like we’re gonna be fighting whether you two want to or not.” Stanley muttered, tossing the baseball bat to Fiddleford. The couch slid across the ground, inching farther away from the door. Some of the monsters were able to get half their chests in before being shoved out again. Fear numbed the burning pain on his cheek as the blood began to clot.

Stanley handed his twin a fire poker just as the chain snapped. The couch inched forward again. The trio took a step back simultaneously. Fiddleford tightened his grip on the bat, feeling its weight and the smooth wood against his palms. _Could they really overtake a horde of zombies?_

“Listen,” Stanford spoke. “If I die, I want you all to know--“

“You ain’t gonna die. Neither of you are. So shut up,” Stanley paused, sliding on a knuckle duster, “and get ready. We’re not dying yet.” The boxer flashed them all a dangerous glare, letting them know just how serious the situation was. Fiddleford’s chest swelled in pride. Stanford may have had book smarts, but Stanley was a natural born leader.

They could do this, Fiddleford thought, raising his bat in defense as he braced himself.

Of course, his mind did a 180 as soon as the couch smacked into the wall, and the door swung open. The beings staggered through the entrance, the more decayed crawling on all fours to reach them. The windows gave in; bodies began to shift in, falling into piles of festering flesh on the floor rather than entering one by one.

There was no escaping this time.

The crawlers were somewhat faster, despite their lack of legs or other ailments. Fiddleford felt a hand clamp onto his ankle. He screamed, stumbling back before he remembered the weapon in his hand. He swung the bat. The wood whistled through the air and connected with the side of the zombie’s head. It rolled over, something warm Fiddleford guessed was spoiled blood splattered against his pant legs.

He swung again as another approached him from the side, getting a side glance at the twins as he broke the monster’s ribs. Stanford, centered in between his assistant and brother was getting the worst of it. The scientist thrusted the fire poker into a zombie instead of slashing, forcing him to place a boot against its rotting chest and pull back. It came at him again, unhindered by the stab wound other than the sluggish leak of green and black goo.

Fiddleford swung the bat again, hearing a satisfying crack and it knocked a zombie’s head clean off his shoulders. The body collapsed, unmoving. He looked down at his filthy bat; he had a _great_ swing. The engineer was stronger than he had thought.

Getting just a bit too cocky, he rounded on the next monster in line. The creature caught the bat in its bony hand, before bringing the wood to its mouth. It bit down; the bat splintered and broke, torn out of Fiddleford’s hands altogether.

Stanley paused from his continuous assault on the undead with his fists just in time. He jumped in front of the engineer, pushing the smaller man behind him as he gave the monster an uppercut. It stumbled back, falling to the hardwood and clawing at its unhinged jaw and lolling tongue. Fiddleford gagged. 

He pressed himself up against the wall, looking for anything he could use for defense. Stanley was doing an impeccable job picking up where he left off. The brothers had maneuvered back to back, slicing and striking everything that moved. But without their third partner, the horde had become overwhelming. The trio were a disheveled mess; clothes torn, blood splattered, sweaty, heaving for air messes. They wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer.

Stanley gulped, glancing out the window towards the amassing herd of monsters. Would it ever stop? His eyes fell on his brother and the engineer; one defenseless and the other exhausted. Their strengths had been stretched very thin.

“Up the stairs!” He growled, pointing in the direction to emphasize his point. “We need to regroup and strategize in the attic, away from these freaks! Let’s go!”

He gave one final punch, felling the familiar sensation of a nose breaking against his fist. The boxer looked to his team to make sure they were following, before falling back and rushing up the stairs.

Fiddleford was somewhat slower, having to navigate the horde of zombies that rushed him as the other two ran. Stanley was already at the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time while his brother was shortly behind at the bottom.

A zombie grabbed the scientist’s ankle.

He fell.

Before a scream could escape his lips, his head smashed into the corner of the coffee table piled near the entrance.

Fiddleford watched in slow horror as Stanford crumpled to the floor. Hundreds of pairs of dead eyes turned to the engineer. Fiddleford’s heart leapt into his throat as he froze, one hand reached out for the scientist. He was petrified, the zombies edging closer to him. The engineer’s eyes glanced from Stanford, to the zombies, to the staircase.

He panicked.

Fiddleford did something he wasn’t proud of: he let his cowardice take over.

Suddenly finding his legs unglued from the ground, he fled up the stairs. The monsters were still trying to figure out how stairs worked when he reached the attic door and slammed it shut behind him. He pressed his back against the door, chest heaving.

Stanford turned, his concerned brown eyes falling on the smaller man. He covered the ground between them in an instant, pulling the engineer into a tight hug. He removed himself from Fiddleford, hands clamping on his shoulders.

“Oh, thank god you’re back. For a second I thought I hadn’t been strong enough, and you had--“

He stopped.

“Where’s Ford?”

A wave of hot nausea washed over Fiddleford at his actions. He couldn’t meet the other’s eyes.

The grip of his shoulders loosened.

_“Where’s Ford?”_

Fiddleford didn’t answer. He felt like vomiting all over again.

Stanley shoved him out of the way. Fiddleford fell back, wincing as his ass connected with the ground. He pressed his palms against the splintered floor and looked up.

Stanley’s hand was on the doorknob.

“No!” He screamed, leaping forward and grabbing onto the larger man. He pulled back, both falling onto the ground at his attempt to keep Stanley in. The boxer cursed, pushing himself back to his feet as he shook the engineer off.

“If Ford’s still back there, then--!”

“Ford got knocked out!”

The silence that filled the air chilled him to the bone.

“ _What?”_

“He- He was running! And then one of them grabbed onto his ankle, and he f-fell over and hit his head on the coffee table! He was just lying there and I didn’t know what to do, Stanley! They were all comin’ for me, tryin’ to **kill** me! I just froze. And then I just- I just--“

 _“You ran away and left my brother behind?!”_ The boxer roared. Fiddleford flinched. His shoulder’s rose, hands wringing, subconsciously trying to make himself smaller. The engineer sputtered, trying to get the right words out to defend his actions, but none came. His mind was a gut wrenching mixture of ashamed and scared out of his wits.

Stanley let out a huff of disgust, shaking his head as he turned, making his way for the door again. Fiddleford snapped into action again.

“Wait, you can’t!”

The boxer rounded on him.

“Tell me why the fuck not?” He snarled, lip curling in contempt.

“Because you’ll die out there!” Fiddleford’s voice shook as he latched onto the man’s arm, digging his heels against the floor.

“You’re letting my brother die out there! He could already be dead _right now_ because of you.”

“Stanford wouldn’t want this!”

His voice rang throughout the small room. The hush that fell over the two was deafening.

Stanley looked at him blankly, as if he was still trying to process what the engineer had just said. Then, all at once, rage rushed into his face. The boxer clenched his fist, raising it up--

Fiddleford flinched, shutting his eyes as he prepared for the blow.

But it never came.

Stanley made a strangled noise, his eyebrows furrowing in regret. His arms fell limp at his sides. The boxer’s back hit the door. He slowly slid down against it, eyes focused on his hands in horror. After a moment, he burred his face within his palms.

Fiddleford blinked. He straightened up. Was Stanley _shaking?_

Still frightened beyond believe, he made timid steps, crossing the floor before stopping beside the man. He looked at the door. So far there had been no disturbances, only faint groans from downstairs. _It won’t last long_ , he told himself as his eyes found the trembling boxer.

Pity flooded over the engineer. He crouched down next to the larger man, scooting closer painfully slow, inch by inch. He rested the back of his head against the flat surface with a sigh. No amount of anger or fear could make Fiddleford hate the man.

“He’s dead,” Stanley said, his voice hoarse, “and I killed him.”

“No you didn’t, Stanley.” Fiddleford said softly.

“I did. I should have checked, should’ve made you two went first before I left. Now my brother is dead and I almost hit you.”

“You were upset--“

“That’s not an excuse! Don’t ever say that.” Stanley cut him off, looking up from his hands. Fiddleford was taken aback. The man looked away, hiding his teary face from the engineer.

Fiddleford carefully took the boxers hand into his own, noting how much bigger it was than his own. He ran his fingertips over the reddening flesh around his knuckles, and then down the many creases and veins. He let the man cry it out for as long as the zombies would allow.

Stanley’s breathing became less ragged.

“If there’s a spell for summoning zombies,” Fiddleford began slowly, “then maybe there is also a reversal spell. I bet Ford even wrote it down in the journal, and we just didn’t see it. We could get that back and translate it and fix your brother.” Stanley nodded as Fiddleford continued.

“Or, if it isn’t in there, I’m sure we could find it out somehow. I mean, from what I’ve learned, the world is a wide and supernatural place. I’m just as much as a researcher as Stanford. We can find a cure and take him with us. Either way, we’ll make this work. We’ll save him and he won’t be dead, okay?” Fiddleford didn’t care how long it took. If he could make up for his cowardice, he would do so.

“We’ll have to get through all those zombies though.”

Some unreadable emotion passed over Stanley’s face, something dark. The man looked resigned. He was quiet for a moment before he broke out a bit too fast into grin.

“I have the perfect plan.” He said, standing up from his spot on the floor. Fiddleford followed in suit.

“Do you know about the window thing on the outside?” Stanley questioned, pointing to the larger window at the end of the room, marked with a triangular incision into the glass. Fiddleford’s eyes widened.

“You mean the secret loft on the roof? You know about that?” In all his time of living and working with the Pines, he had never seen another soul on the odd balcony but himself. It was peaceful, a place he went to gather his thoughts. Of course, as one floor below them zombies were crashing about, it didn’t seem so safe.

“Of course I do. I’ve been living here, what, two years? But that’s not the point.”

He walked briskly as he spoke, making his way to the window. He unlatched the lock and threw it open.

“Look! Just as I thought, most of the zombies are distracted by the inside of the house, not the outside. They are too focused on the stairs to notice us skedaddling off into the night.” Stanley stepped out onto the balcony. The boxer’s hands moved as he talked, as if he were planning a war strategy.

“What we’ll do, is get out on this thing, and hop over to that tree.”

He gestured to the thin pine a few feet away from the ledge. It didn’t look the least bit sturdy.

“We can climb down it. Once we’re on the ground, we get rid of those few idiots that _do_ notice us. Then you hop in the Stanmobile, and start the engine. You’ll be the getaway driver. Meanwhile, I rush inside, grab poindexter, and carry him out. And then we’ll get the hell out of here, easy-peasy.”

Fiddleford followed him out onto the balcony. The boxer was very efficient with how he explained his plan, as if he had done it many times before. And, giving that it involved a _getaway driver_ , it was probably a skill he had picked up in his shady past. The engineer went over it again in his mind, noting every possible gap.

“You won’t make it.” Stanley turned to eye him as he shook his head. “There’s no way you can carry Ford through a swarm of the undead. He weighs 200 pounds; you won’t be able to move fast enough. _And_ , there’s no way I could make that jump to the tree. Let’s just stay put until they clear out and-“

“I can’t do that.” Stanley firmly responded. “I won’t leave him behind, not for another minute, Fidds. I can’t bring myself to. If he’s been bitten, then I have to get to him.”

“It won’t work!” Fiddleford clutched at his hair, “There are too many variables. You could be torn apart. Or worse, bitten! Then who will save Stanford?”

“Face it Stanley, it’s hopeless.”

 Stanley’s eyes widened, gaining a steely edge. His gaze raked over the engineer, the boxer’s mouth set into a hard line.

He knew what he’d have to do.

“Don’t be dumb.” He scoffed, flicking his wrist like it’s no big deal, like it’s not life or death they were discussing. A smile spread across his face. “We’ll be just fine. They don’t have enough brainpower to even realize what I’m doing before I’m out.”

“But we could die! _You_ could die. Aren’t- aren’t you afraid of that?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Stanley barked. He dragged a hand through his hair, regaining his composure. “If I don’t at least _try_ to save him I won’t be able to live with myself. And I’ll protect you above all costs so you won’t get the rope either. We can’t lose, Fidds. It’ll be a walk in the park.”

Fiddleford shot him a horrified glare, but before he could open his mouth, Stanley cut in.

“We’re gonna get up there and get out. As simple as that. I’ll get Ford, meet you back at the car, and then we run and live long, fulfilling lives. You got that?”

Fiddleford’s hands lowered, falling limp at his side. Stan was going to get them both killed, he was sure of it. This was unlike any of his other plans; there was no hope to make it out unscathed. _I mean, it’s practically a suicide mission!_ Fiddleford let the thought consume him. He’d be torn to shreds by the undead, or lose himself as the madness overtook him. His shoulder’s fell with a kind of quiet resign as he looked back up at the boxer in front of him. Fiddleford had never felt number in his life, as if someone had stuffed him with cotton balls.

Stanley’s hands slid down from Fiddleford’s shoulders to his hips, curving along the lines of his body. The engineer’s heart leapt to his throat, his own hands reflexively resting on the other’s chest. He tensed. Stanley pulled him closer, searching the man’s wide blue eyes for _something_.

 A hand slipped to the back of his neck and pulled Fiddleford forward, the boxer’s lips pressed against his forehead. Fiddleford relaxed against the other’s form, his hands curling around the Stanley’s coat. He swore the other was shaking.

And then, as fast as he had fell into the man’s arms, he was being pushed away.

The engineer was dazed. He hardly noticed how quickly Stanley ducked back through the window. He blinked; the boxer shut the window, locking it. Fiddleford took a step forward, placing his palm against the glass. He pushed against it; the lock held fast. 

Fiddleford shot the man a hurt, questioning look before it dawned on him.

“I lied.” Stanley voiced what was on his mind, flashing the smaller man one of his toothy grins. “You were right. We’d probably both die while I tried to get Ford. So I’m making sure at least one of us stays safe. You’re easy to read, Fidds.”

“What are you doing?! You’re going to die! Stanley, let me in!”

“I can’t do that, nerd. You’re too important. Besides, your plan is foolproof. Just stay out on the window ledge until they clear out. Stay quiet so they don’t find you. Go home and wash your hands of this mystery bullshit like you’ve always said you would. Build robots, do whatever, _live_. I have to at least _try_ to get Stanford back, even if it means almost certain death. If I make it, I’ll come grab you too. But I won’t see you die here with me, not while I can help it.”

“You lying, self-sacrificial idiot! Open this window _right now_ , Stanley Pines!”

A loud crash resounded from downstairs, the moans of the undead filled the air. It blocked out the last of Stanley’s words, and no--  _no_ , he did _not_ just mouth those three words. Those three words Fiddleford had been waiting _years_ to hear.

The boxer gave him a small, sad smile, and turned his back to him.

The engineer beat against the glass, tears running freely down his cheeks and leaking into his wound. He didn’t care. Fiddleford welcomed the sting of salt. He hardly noticed he was screaming as the other man crossed the room and threw open the door. And then he was shouting every curse he could think of, mixed in with “Stanley” and “monster”.

Stanley was gone.

The engineer looked around wildly, pulling his hair as his breathing became more ragged. Denial hit him hard. No, he thought, Stanley wasn’t gone. He should have put more faith in the man. Fiddleford began pacing. _I could leap down_ , he thought, glancing over the side of the roof. But no, that would surely break his legs and then he would be more of a burden than of help. He could break the window, but with what?

He halted, a frustrated cry tearing free from his lips. He turned back to the window, face draining of color.

Stanley was going to die, alone and violently, and it was his fault. He had killed both brothers. He had killed his only friends in the world.

Fiddleford pressed a hand against the ghost of a palm the boxer had left behind on the glass; the only evidence remaining that he had ever been there. He brought that same hand to his face, closing his eyes as he replayed the too brief memory. He had been a fool, and too readable; Stanley had conned even him in the end.

When he opened his eyes the world was grey.

“Boy, I can smell the heartbreak from over here!”

The remark was followed by a high-pitched, nasally laugh. Fiddleford flinched, frantically wiping his eyes as he whipped around to stare at the monster-

A floating triangle with a top hat. Hey, it wasn’t something you’d see every day, but he had grown numb to these kinds of oddities.

“Name’s Bill Cipher, and you sure look like you could use a hand, Fiddleford.”

“H-How do you know my name?” The engineer asked, taken aback.

“Let’s just say I’ve heard a lot about you. And I have **_big_** plans for you, kid.” His voice changed at the word ‘big’, dipping lower, as if he had two tones at the same time. It was the sort of freaky shit Stanley would complain about in horror movies.

“I’m in a bit of a situation right now, so if you don’t mind--”

“Leave you alone so you can go back to sobbing over your dead-- I’m sorry, _soon to be dead_ boyfriend?”

“You- You don’t know he’ll die.” Fiddleford voiced weakly. Hell, he was already thinking it, but this _monster_ had _no right_ to express it aloud.

“I’m a cosmic being with no limits on my power, of course I know what the future holds! Take a look.” Bill zipped forward, placing his freezing cold palms against the engineer’s forehead. Fiddleford’s eyes rolled back into his head.

He was running. Fiddleford had no control over his body, rather he was just a passenger trapped inside of a skull. He glanced down at his hands, cut to pieces and bloody as he flew down the stairs.

His heart stopped. Stanford was up and unharmed, a happy surprise, even if he was currently being swarmed by a cluster of zombies.

But that’s not what he was focused on.

Fiddleford dropped to his knees, his trembling arms finding the man on the ground.

Stanley gripped his torn neck, blood pulsing to the tune of his heartbeat under his fingers. The man’s glazed over eyes locked with his for a moment as he leaned over the boxer. Stanley’s breath came out in short, ragged huffs. Fiddleford panicked; the only thing he could think to do was apply pressure. Their blood mixed together on his hands as he did so, the other hand reaching forward to brush the boxer’s sweaty, disheveled bangs from his forehead.

Stanford was screaming. Or was that himself? The undead were approaching him. But he couldn’t care less. The man below him had lost too much blood. Stanley was looking at him like he was the most important person in the universe.

And then, all at once, the boxer went limp. His eyes lost their mischievous quality. Stanley Pines was dead. Now he was sure he’s screaming.

He came back to the grey world with a shudder, a hand pressed against his mouth to cover the sob that ripped from his throat. The triangle looked him over with red pupils. Fiddleford fought to catch his breath, hands balled into fists at his side. Bill laughed again. There was nothing more he loved then genuine, pained emotions.

“How pitiful. Human beings are so fickle with their emotions, that they don’t show them until dire situations. Hilarious! Face it, kid, you got a lot of regrets, but letting Fez die in your arms is at the top of the list. Let me tell you, your life is _not_ pretty after that.”

“But,” The triangle grew somewhat smaller in size, hands still pressed behind his back as he moved forward to face Fiddleford, “I _could_ save him. It’ll cost you though.”

Fiddleford’s head snapped up. “What? You can?”

“I’ll strike up a deal with you!” at the words, Bill’s hand was engulfed with blue flames. The engineer stumbled back, looking up at the triangle with wide, questioning eyes.

“I’ll save your friends, and get rid of this whole infestation. Of course, you’ll have to hold up your side of the bargain afterwards.”

 “What do you want?” Fiddleford asked, attempting to hide the desperate lilt in his voice.

Bill knew he had the man in the palm of his hands. But, he would remain helpful for now. Keep just enough information from the engineer so he could gain some trust; it was the same method he had been using for thousands of years, the same method he had even been using on Stanford Pines.

“Just a small **_favor_** in the near future.” His voice deepened, gaining a sinister tone. Fiddleford paused. Every part of him that still had morals screamed ‘no’. He looked down at his hands, the awful future-memory of blood covering them flashed before his eyes.

Something crashed downstairs.

“Time’s almost up, kid!”

Fiddleford knew he was making a deal with the devil, and at this point, he didn’t care.

The Pines were worth the world to him, and he couldn’t imagine living in one without them.

“Deal.”

He placed his hand in the fire and shook Bill’s oddly icy one. A chill tore down his spine as the flames licked at his own palm. It burned cold. He could feel his very blood vessels pulse with the frost consuming him. After a short pause, the flames died down.

Fiddleford drew his hand back quickly, staring at his unscathed palm in awe. This monster truly was a powerful, cosmic force.

“Alright, kid, here’s this is going to work.” Bill flew back, growing in size.

“You won’t be able to see me once you wake up, in this form I am only visible in the dreamscape. But I will be following you every step of the way, literally. Technically, we will be sharing a body. I won’t possess you, yet! To you, it will be strictly communication. That, and I will be draining you of energy, using it to funnel over some basic powers from the mindscape. Nothing too much, but it comes with a price. You _could_ end up passing out after the fight.”

“What?!”

 “Just say the word, and I perform the task. That is, until my part of the contract is fulfilled.”

“And then?”

“You hold up your part of the deal!”

“And what exactly are you going to have me do?”

“All in good time. As for now, you need to **_wake up_**.”

Fiddleford awoke with a jolt, his back pressed against the wood. A low, guttural moan resounded from somewhere within the Shack, followed by the sounds of more glass breaking. _How long had he been out? He_ checked his watch as he brought his other hand to rub his eyes.

_2 minutes and 30 seconds._

The engineer wasn’t a religious man, but he prayed to whoever would hear him that he wasn’t too late.

“Bill?” He called, glancing around the empty balcony. “I want down.”

“ _You got it!”_

A blue glow appeared around his limbs as he was lifted into the air. He forced himself to breath steady, reassuring himself that it was no different from him and Stanford’s gravity anomalies during testing. His feet hit the grass and he could have kiss the ground below him.

Instead, Fiddleford jerked back at the sudden sense of light-headiness that washed over him. His knees shook to hold his body up, his arms flying out to catch himself in case he fell. The spell was short, but enough to frighten him.

_So this was what Bill had warned me about._

Fiddleford steadied himself. He didn’t have time to stop for every ache and pain. He had to get to his friends. The engineer rushed to the totem pole for cover, peaking from behind it. Only one zombie stood between him and the door. Stanley had warned him there might be some stragglers.

“Stop him, Bill!”

_“Geez kid, no need to yell!”_

The dead man’s arm twisted back with a sickening crunch. It groaned, cradling its useless limb as it searched for the cause. Its head was the next thing to go; it exploded in a flash of gore and bright blue light.

For the second time that day, Fiddleford felt bile rise in his throat. He had done that. He had broken that monster’s arm beyond repair, had blown its brain to bits. Technically, Bill had performed the task, but he had _ordered_ him to.

There could have been some hint of humanity in the thing he had just murdered. It had a family at one time, it lived a life of sorrow and joy. And he had destroyed it so easily.

“ _That’s the price you pay when you have a demon living on your shoulder!”_

“Demon…?” He breathed out, as he ran to the door as fast as his legs would carry him. The engineer got no response from the triangle.

And then he was there, on the front porch. Planks of wood had been ripped out, glass shards littered the ground from the busted windows. He navigated around the debris, taking a shaky breath as he gripped the door handle.

The door came off its hinges as he pulled. It seemed fitting.

The inside of the house was chaos. Stanford was on the ground, but awake. The scientist was on all fours, trying to push himself up on shaking legs (a side effect of head trauma, as Fiddleford had learned personally). Fiddleford rushed to help him up.

Six fingered hands locked onto his and moved up to anchor onto his arms as he hoisted the man up. It was a difficult task, but the remaining zombies didn’t seem to notice him as he skirted around the group and set Stanford onto the couch.

“They didn’t recognize me as ‘living’ when I was knocked out. How fascinating--“

“Where’s Stanley?” Fiddleford demanded. Stanford’s eyes looked past him solemnly, gazing into the crowd. The engineer’s mouth went dry.

A zombie flew back, the boxer making his appearance as he pulled away from the hands grabbing at him. The engineer breathed a sigh of relief. Fiddleford had made it in time.

But the moment didn’t last long.

Stanley froze when he saw the man, mouth falling open in surprise. It left him wide open.

One jumped him, pining the boxer against the wall. Stanley braced his forearm against the thing’s slimy, scabbed neck as it snapped its mouth closed an inch away from his nose. He pushed back against the creature, gritting his teeth.

Another joined its kind, unkempt nails biting into Stanley’s arm as it pulled his improvised shield back. He was defenseless, held against the wall, the zombie’s teeth growing ever closer to his neck.

 _“Stop it!”_ Fiddleford screamed.

The voice in his head didn’t respond, rather the demon let his actions speak for himself.

Suddenly, the monster tensed, a choking noise escaping its fanged mouth as its eyes rolled back in his head. The zombie fell to the ground, limbs flailing as a violent seizure overcame him. And Fiddleford _enjoyed_ it, looking to his hands in awe. He liked his newfound power over life and death. He liked having the control over something as precious as another’s existence. He had been weak his entire life, and now he could perform feats of this extent? It was addicting. He almost didn't want Bill to leave. _Almost._

They fell like dominos, one by one, until they were all on the ground, writhing. The scene made the engineer’s skin crawl.

The first one stopped suddenly, limps frozen at awkward angled, skull lulling to the side. And then its head split wide open. The other’s followed, their head popping like pimples. All sympathy he had had for the creatures escaped him. He eyed them mercilessly.

Fiddleford didn’t have time to catch the twin’s reactions to all of this, for he too had fallen to the ground. He felt weak, unable to even lift his arm, but just strong enough to keep the rise and fall of his chest steady. The engineer’s eyes were like a lead curtain, and growing heavier by the second until they finally fluttered closed.

\--

Bill came to him in a dream. Or rather, it was the demon’s voice. Everything was black inside of his head.

“You’re welcome for the salvation. I had fun bouncing around inside your skull! You got a real interesting place up there!”

He laughed like his joke was the funniest thing in the world.

“ **But remember** ,” His voice gained that low quality once more, “when I come calling for the debt to be paid, there’s no escaping.”

“Oh, and a word to the wise, when your pals ask what all of that was, I suggest you lie. No need to let them know you bargained with an evil spirit, right? You don’t want them to lose their trust in you, do you? After you worked so hard to gain it?” The demon left the question ringing in his ears. Fiddleford had no intention of answering aloud.

“Until next time!”

And then Bill was gone again.

Fiddleford awoke in a cold sweat on the couch. The living room was still a wreck, things had been shifted and swept. He couldn’t have been out for very long.

He ran a hand over his face.

What exactly was his debt to the demon? His soul? Something _worse_? He couldn’t imagine much worse, but he was sure that something as crafty as Bill would have something in store for the man.

The engineer pulled his face away, something black catching his eyes. Fiddleford squinted, looking more closely at his palms. It was faint, but he could still make out the letters.

A small, black triangle etched into his hand with the phrase “Always Watching” inside of it. He wiped his palm against his pants, pulling back to reveal it was done in ink.

Fiddleford scoffed, falling back down against the pillow underneath his head. Was that meant to daunt him? To think, he had been afraid of a well-dressed triangle, who left _magic marker warnings_ on people. Maybe he hadn’t accumulated a debt with the demon after all, maybe it was just a scare tactic. Perhaps Bill wasn’t even a demon.

 _Besides,_ Fiddleford reassured himself, _Bill Cipher has no dominion over this world._

_Right?_

He settled back down against the plush cushions. Dawn was approaching fast, leaking in through the windows in lazy rays of lights that speckled the oak floor. The twins would be up soon. Maybe he would make them breakfast as an apology. Maybe he would confront Stanley about what he had actually meant on the balcony the previous night.

The world was zombie free, and full of possibilities.

_Right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you just keep thinking that Fidds. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm glad I could finally introduce Bill in this chapter. He's going to play a vital role later on, so be on the lookout. Also, the next chapter is a real treat. I'll probably have to up the ratings because of it. 
> 
> Leave a comment or Kudos if you enjoyed, and I should be getting back to my regular updating schedule for now! Thank you.


	9. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford finally pushes his brother into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! 100 kudos! I never thought I would get that much for this silly idea that I had rattling around in my brain for a while. Thank you all so much, it's means a lot to me. 
> 
> Anyways, I should probably start this chapter off by warning that its got some NSFW elements, mostly sexual ones. There's not much of an adventure element because I wanted to focus on the relationship for a moment. And I'm ace as hell, so it is a bit brief and I wrote it to focus more on the high running emotions of the situation and developments in character. So, if you aren't into those things it's easy to skip over, but if you are: godspeed.
> 
> As for the rest of this chapter it's sappy as hell because I'm a hopeless romantice. Send help.

Stanford watched his brother pace around the room, hands tucked behind his back and a worried frown stretched thin across his lips. He had an uncanny similarity to their father when he got this way. Which could have been worse, as the only other time he has seen his brother _this_ worked up was the night before he asked Carla McCorkle to prom. The scientist sighed.

“Why don’t you just ask him, Lee?”

“ _Ask him?_ What? Are you nuts?” His brother spun on a heel, shooting him a dismayed expression. His furrowed eyebrows created a small crease on his forehead as he ran his hand, _yet again_ , through his hair.

“It would certainly be easier than pacing around my kitchen at this hour. You’re going to wear a trench into the floor at this rate.”

“You’re not exactly the best person to go to for advice on this subject! When was the last time you had a relationship that lasted longer than a month?!”

“Oh, like you’re any better?” The scientist scowled at his brother, “You haven’t been in a steady relationship in six years.”

“That’s the problem!” The boxer dragged a hand down his face. “I’ve been out of the game for so long. I’ve lost my smooth… ness.”

“’Smoothness’? You call that awful style of flirting with girls _smooth_?”

“Just shut your yap!” The man sat at the table with a resigned groan. “It’s not like I got any other options. I just don’t know what to do. What do I even say to him? I can’t just give him the ‘Stan Pines’ method. He’s worth more than that.”

The microwave dinged.

“Just go up there, and be yourself.” Stanford reached into the microwave and procured two mugs of warm tea. He handed them to his brother. “Here’s your excuse. Tell him I sent you up there to give him tea and then just stick around.”

“What do I do? Just go up there and… Confess? What if he says no? _What if he says yes?”_

“If he says no, then you just go hide out in Vegas like you did when you first realized how much you liked him. It will all blow over eventually, Fiddleford’s a pretty understanding guy. And if he says yes…” The scientist made a grossed-out face. “I’ll leave that part for you two to decide.”

“But what if--“                                                                  

“No, stop thinking that way or you’ll be stuck in this kitchen forever! March up there, confess your love like Benedick and Beatrice--“

“Who?”

Stanford sighed at his brother’s interruption, pausing to come up with a metaphor the boxer would actually understand.

“Like that guy with the boom box from ‘Say Anything’.”

“Oh.”

“Now stop worrying and making up excuses! Go up there and give it your best shot!” He pushed his brother to the stairs. Stanley turned back, shooting him a fearful look before squaring his shoulders and steeling his face. He could do this. Or at least he could fake enough confidence to work his way through it. The boxer marched up the stairs, determined.

The scientist shook his head, watching Stanley go.

“Maybe now those two fools will get out of my hair.”

\--

Fiddleford dangled his feet off the wooden beams, looking up against the surprisingly bright night sky. He had discovered this spot a week after he had begun working for the Pines. After his world being flipped upside down with the discoveries of _actual cryptids_ , he had needed a place to get away from it all. The strange extension to the roof had appeared before him like a mirage. Over time he had fixed it up, sweeping off the cob webs and sneaking up lawn chairs when he could afford to. Until yesterday, he had thought only he had knowledge of this place. Fiddleford wished it had stayed that way.

After they had cleared out the wreckage of the house, the broken picture frames and the torn furniture, the engineer’s feet had taken him here. The place where he could sit back and clear his head. He had too many questions rattling around in his brain.

Had Stanley really meant it when he had mouthed ‘I love you’ from across the room, or was it a last act of heroism? They hadn’t really talked since. Stanford made sure to busy the awkward air with cleaning, but even if they had time, he suspected they would have avoided the subject for as long as they possibly could. Running away from his feelings came naturally to him. Fiddleford was afraid of what the other man’s answer might be.

And where the _hell_ had that violent urge earlier come from? Had he just never had the upper hand in that kind of situation, or was it something else, something more sinister? Blood was on his hands, and he had taken _pleasure_ in it. Maybe the demon had gotten inside his head and influenced him, left a little piece of himself inside the engineer’s brain. Maybe that was just an excuse so he could go on ignoring the matter longer. He was not a bad person, he reassured himself, even as his confidence in those unsaid words dwindled.

Fiddleford jumped, swearing he had just seen the moon be overcome by an infamous, rectangular pupil. He rubbed his eyes.

No, it was just the normal moon.

He must be going crazy.

Knuckles rapped against the window. The engineer turned, blinking in surprise as the man behind it smiled sheepishly, motioning that his hands were full. Fiddleford stood carefully, balancing on the edge of the roof before opening the creaking window.

“Stanley? What are you doing here?”

“I- uh, Stanford said to bring you some tea. So here I am.” The man gave a quick huff of laughter as he handed the other mug to the engineer. “Mind if I join you for a bit?”

Fiddleford shook his head, giving the boxer a small smile as he retook his seat, patting the edge of the roof next to him for the larger man to sit. Stanley followed in suit, dangling his legs over the side of the building as he glanced from the man next to him and then to the stars.

“Whoa, full moon tonight.” He noted. Fiddleford nodded, surprised at how his heart leapt at the company.

“Think there are any werewolves on the prowl?” Stanley wiggled his fingers in a feigned, menacing gesture. Fiddleford laughed, pushing his shoulder against the other man playfully.

“Honestly, with what we’ve seen, it wouldn’t surprise me.”                    

“Well, we haven’t been huntin’ for them yet.”

“We will sooner or later.” The engineer said with a sigh. “I’m sure Stanford will drag us into it and be as gleeful about it as if we were adoptin’ puppy.”

“Heh, yeah.”

The boxer rolled his eyes, letting them rest on the ground below him.

A content silence fell over the two, neither caring how close they had grown, or that they were leaning against each other. Fiddleford brought the mug to his lips. He should apologize, he should say anything about what had happened to them, rather than pushing it out of his mind and ignoring it until it ate away at him.

If there was anyone he could trust with this secret about Bill Cipher and his increasingly frightening thoughts, it was Stanley Pines.

He turned to the man, mouth open and ready to confess, when a hand caressed his jawline. Fiddleford’s mind went blank, zapping off like a television screen. A thumb skimmed gently over the scabbing gash across his cheek. Fiddleford shivered against his skin. He met the other man’s dark eyes.

“Does it hurt?” Stanley’s whisper caught him off guard. The engineer found himself subconsciously leaning into the touch.

“No, I’m fine now.” He reassured, his voice quiet. The boxer let his thumb slide across the smaller man’s cheek one last time, until he could no longer meet his blue eyes. The hand retracted, much to Fiddleford’s chagrin.

Stanley cleared his throat.

“Scars are nothin’ to worry about. To tell ya the truth, even I got my fair share.”

“Really?” Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at him. The larger man nodded, peeling off his red jacket and revealing the long, thin scar that trailed along the man’s forearm. The engineer traced the pale ridges with a finger.

“Some customers get a little too hands-on when they realize they’ve been suckered.” The boxer shrugged, shooting the man a ‘eh, what are ya gonna do?’ grin. Fiddleford felt the ends of his mouth quirk up.

“I like to think of them as constellations, ya know? Little tiny ones on our skin that all have a story. I mean, it’s easier than thinking of them as an ugly reminder, right?” Fiddleford stifled a laugh. Stanley suddenly felt incredibly stupid. He was good at one liners, not sappy romance. The whole affair made him very nervous, more tense than he had been in a very long time. He was tough; this sort of thing shouldn't even phase him! The boxer tried to reason thi with himself, but it didn't quite stop the hollow feeling in his stomach.

Fiddleford brought his fingers to his own scar, pressing his fingertips into the puckered skin. Stanley’s hand rose to accompany his own, tugging the palm away from his face.

“So don’t be so self-conscious. It’s like… art.” The boxer rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, before pointing to the sky.

“Like, uh, that thing over there. You know… The thing.”

Fiddleford deadpanned.

“You can’t name a single constellation can you?”

Stanley shot him that crooked grin, the one he displayed when he knew he had been caught. Fiddleford sighed and leaned against the larger man, noting how the boxer continued to hold onto his hand.

“Alright, that up there,” He pointed directly north of them, “That’s the Big Dipper. And over beside it is the Little Dipper.”

“Yeesh, ‘Dipper’, what a dumb name.”

And after a short pause the man added, “I like it.”

Fiddleford gave a nasally laugh before continuing on. For once he was glad he had taken an astronomy class between majors.

“There’s Draco…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that’s Orion over there.”

“Wait, wasn’t he a hunter, or- or somethin’?”

“Yes, he was.” Fiddleford nodded. “So powerful that, as the myth goes, even Artemis, goddess of the hunt, noticed him.”

“How did he end up in the sky?”

“Well, he and Artemis fell in love, as one story goes. They would spend every moment of the day together before she had to drag the moon across the sky. They were completely infatuated. Of course, when Apollo, her brother, found out he wasn’t too happy, and he ordered her to stop seeing him. When she refused… He sent down a giant scorpion to do battle with Orion.”

Stanley gave a low whistle.

“What happened? They beat it, right? They kicked its ass?”

Fiddleford gulped, a grimace stretching across his lips.

“No, he died. She got there too late to help. In a fit of rage she launched Scorpius,” He pointed to another loose cluster of stars, “into the sky. And then she took Orion and placed him in the stars as well, so he would never be forgotten.”

“Geez. That’s fuckin’ heavy.”

“And that’s only one variation.” Fiddleford continued, talking faster and in a more excited tone as he realized the boxer wasn’t just humoring him, but was _actually interested_ in what he had to say.

“In another, Apollo is upset because his sister won’t leave Orion like he said to, and so one day while they are in the sky he points down to a small speck in the sea and basically dares her to hit it with an arrow. Bein’ the skilled huntress she was, she hits the target. But it turns out, it was Orion and her brother had tricked her.”

“ _Sheesh_ , I don’t know which is worse.” Stanley furrowed his eyebrows, turning his head to focus more on the engineer. “In both stories he ends up gettin’ murdered. It’s like sorrow and intimacy go hand in hand with these people.”

The boxer paused, his voice gaining a more joking tone. “Though, they were kinda idiots for pissing off a God.”

“They were in love.” Fiddleford shrugged. “Love is a fool’s paradise. It makes idiots of us all.”

Stanley fell silent for a moment. The engineer was looking at him, almost expectantly. The boxer clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap, the chirping of summer cicadas filling his ears in the quiet.

“It does.” He muttered.

And in that one moment, Stanley decided to do what he did best:

Be spontaneous.

He leaned down, pressing a swift kiss to the other man’s mouth. Fiddleford froze. It was gentle, innocent, and entirely too short. The boxer pulled back quickly, his face bright red.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have--“

Fiddleford shook his head frantically, snaking his hands around the back of Stanley’s neck before pulling him back down for a more passionate kiss. The boxer muttered something in surprise against his lips before letting himself be fully engulfed. Strong arms wrapped around the smaller man’s waist and tugged him close. The engineer melted into the kiss with a sigh, his fingers slowly weaving into Stanley’s brown hair.

When they finally broke apart, they took deep gulps of air, wide and wondering eyes scanning over each other. Fiddleford wanted nothing more than to get closer and stay that way for an eternity. Both men seemed to have the same idea, as their foreheads gently met.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” Fiddleford’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

“Is that really all you can think to say, nerd?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

That must have gotten through the boxer’s thick skull, and before he knew it, Fiddleford was being pulled into the man’s lap. It was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. Faced with a sudden height advantage, the engineer looked down at the man securely holding him.  They both moved forward, noses bumping in their failed attempt. The two laughed, half-lidded eyes finding each other in the semi-darkness. Fiddleford tried again, navigating the boxer to his lips.

They stayed that way for a long time, kissing and muttering in the dark, the occasional small burst of laughter resounding in the night. Fiddleford had never met someone who had made his heart beat insanely fast one moment, and then so very slow the next.

Stanley pulled back, eliciting a whimper from the man on his lap; it was soon replaced by a gasp as the boxer’s mouth locked onto the hollow of Fiddleford’s throat. He trailed a line of gentle kisses down the smaller man’s neck. They became slower as he reached the other’s collar bone, enfolding into something that was more teeth and suction than lips pressed against his skin. The engineer angled his head, allowing the other more access as he continued along his collarbone and onto his shoulders.

Fiddleford was breathless; he was absolutely helpless to the larger man’s antics. A quiet moan escaped his lips as the other man’s mouth found the soft spot where neck meets shoulder. He loosened his grip on the boxer’s hair, hands moving slowly down to press against the man’s chest. Stanley resurfaced, looking smug as a cat.

“Would you--,” Stanley cleared his throat before speaking with more confidence, “Would you like to continue this inside and _away from the dangerous ledge?_ ”

“In… your room?” Fiddleford blinked, fixing his crooked shirt collar. The boxer’s grip loosened on his hips.

“Well, I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to! If you’re not into that we could just hang out or watch a movie or--“

“No! I- I want to!” The engineer averted his eyes from the other’s piercing gaze, heat creeping into his face. He took a deep breath.

“I want to be with you like this.”

Stanley’s grin, crooked as his criminal record, had returned. Fiddleford’s insides turned to mush. He gave the man a quick peck on the lips before sliding off his lap.

The engineer stood, straightening his tie and patting down his hair. He shouldn’t be this disheveled from a simple make out session. Fiddleford He reached down to reclaim his now cold cup of tea when a hand snatched his own and pulled him towards the window.

“C’mon,” Stanley voiced, pulling the smaller man closer, “I’ll get those later. Right now we have more important things to do.”

\--

 Fiddleford needed Stanley. He needed him like flames needed oxygen, like tides needed the moon. He needed him more than anything else in the world at the moment and it was consuming him.

The boxer’s hungry, dry lips crashed against his own, only fueling the inferno pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Their pace had started slow; hands cautiously undoing buttons, tugging at ties, small whispers of ‘Are you sure?’ It was passionate. It was emotive. It was feeling the way the other’s muscles tensed and jumped as the engineer ran his fingers down his bare chest. It was arms wrapping around his naked, vulnerable frame and that wonderful feeling of security blooming in his chest.

But somewhere along the way they had dissolved into a frenzy.        

Fiddleford arched his back, tightening his grip on the boxer’s hair as the man’s calloused hands travelled lower and lower down his spine. The engineer committed to memory every touch Stanley graced his skin with, from the tiniest of brushes to the lips pressed against his warm body. Stanley spread the other’s thighs further part, giving himself more access. He rolled his hips forward, the engineer below him whining into his mouth as he hit that sweet spot.

He had waited far, far too long for this moment. Fiddleford had never expected the reality unfolding around him to happen. He wanted to come undone with Stanley in the most primal sense of the word.

The first intrusion had been a quick, biting pain, causing him to gasp and clutch onto the other man’s shoulders. He was sure the boxer would have small, crescent-moon scratches tomorrow morning. The engineer had grown more accustomed to the pain, it ebbing away into something more pleasurable, more primitive. At the strangled cry at the second finger, Stanley stopped, pulling himself away completely from the other man.

Fiddleford had reflexively reached out to pull the other back against him; the absence of his warm skin against his own aching more than anything he had ever known.

“I’m sorry, if it hurts I’ll--“

“N-No! I want this. I need this. I need you.” He had _always_ needed him. A newfound glint replaced the concern in the boxer’s eyes as he dove back down. By the third finger, the engineer was practically riding his knuckles.

And here they were now, bare against the twisted sheets, dark forms crashing together like waves in the moonlight. They were as vulnerable as you could be to another human. The thought shook Fiddleford. He was a reserved man as much as he was a coward. Being open, being completely impotent to another lifeform was frightening to him. And yet, he didn’t flinch from this susceptible situation.

He firmly trusted Stanley with every fiber of his being.

Fiddleford tensed as another shiver raked through his body, the pit of his stomach tightening. He wouldn’t last long now. Stanley’s thrusts grew more erratic. He buried his face in the crook of the engineer’s neck and groaned, the deep sound vibrating throughout his chest. Fiddleford’s brain had become devoid of thought long ago, limiting his functions to only whimpering Stanley’s name and scrambling for skin as he edged closer.

The engineer’s hands unfastened from his hair and snaked their way down to the boxer’s face, caressing his jaw and moving the man to look him in the eyes. Stanley’s hot breath tickled Fiddleford nose as he pressed their foreheads together.

“F-Fidds, I can’t--“

“S’okay.” Fiddleford panted, screwing his eyes shut. His accent showed more than ever with his lack of control. “Me neither.”

Stanley’s mouth met his own as the engineer reached his climax. He moaned, his orgasm flooding through him in warm, pulsating waves of pleasure. Not long after, the boxer followed in suit, muttering under his breath as their bodies rocked lazily together, riding it out.

And for a moment they stayed pressed together, chests heaving as they fought to regain their composure. Brown eyes locked onto blue in the pale light, basking in the afterglow. A grin, wide and dopey, spread across Stanley’s face as he admired the man under him.

The boxer rolled off, the bed dipping at the sudden weight change. He grabbed the dark sheet that had worked its way to the end of the bed and pulled it up over their forms. The smaller man nestled himself into the crook of Stanley’s arm.

“Ya know, I’m starting to think that I might be in love with you.” The larger joked. Fiddleford grinned, knowing there was some truth behind that statement.

“Now why would you go and get yourself in that mess?”

“I can’t help it! You’re just so nice, and soft… It really is unfair. I’m starting to think you’ve been drugging me with some love potion you and Ford made up in the lab.”

“What do you think was in that tea?” Fiddleford said dryly, earning a bark of laughter from the other man.

Stanley turned his head, letting his fingers dance over the engineer’s cheek as he shot him that crooked smile. Fiddleford’s heart melted.

He pressed a quick peck to the smaller man’s temple before pushing himself up.

“Don’t worry,” The boxer seemed to read his mind as he stood from the bed, “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Fiddleford’s eyes raked over the man’s naked body as he left the room. He hadn’t even bothered to put his pants back on. Not that he _minded._

The engineer sighed, pulling the covers around up around himself as he shifted to look at the ceiling.

The room felt much colder without the other pressed against him, the bed less welcoming. He glanced around the room, one he had only been in a handful of times in the past. The engineer was a foreigner to this place, and the absence of Stanley only seemed to emphasize that. He wondered how many had been in this position before.

And then his mind wondered to the inevitable, anxiety ridden place.

What if the man didn’t come back?

He practically slapped himself as the thought intruded on his happy moment.

Fiddleford didn’t think he could live being just another one of the boxer’s infamous one night stands (‘One Night _Stans_ ’ as Stanford had nicknamed them). He wouldn’t be able to face the light of day going back to work as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t allowed himself to be vulnerable. His crush had blossomed into something uncontrollable, something beautiful. After they had shared something that intimate, he didn’t think he would ever be able to reclaim those feelings. Stanley Pines had filled him with hope, and now he could never return to being an empty person again.

He waited, the silence filling him with dread. He heard the sink shut off, and then a slow twist on the door handle.

The boxer was back, his hair looking less disheveled, the same grin spread across his features, highlighting the happiness in his brown eyes. He plopped onto the bed beside the engineer, causing the smaller man to bounce against the springs.

“Sorry that took so long. I didn’t think you would want to be cuddlin’ me with cum all over my chest.”

Fiddleford snorted, a blush dusting his cheeks at the man’s honesty. He had been foolish to think Stanley would break his promises. He broke out into laughter, loud and braying, as the boxer’s wrapped his arms around his middle.

“There’s that laugh!” Stanley exclaimed, pulling the other closer to his chest as he slid under the sheet. Fiddleford nuzzled into his neck, sighing contentedly.

They were going to be just fine.

He was sure of it.

\--

Sometime much later, Stanford Pines awoke in his bed.

He pressed a six-fingered hand to his temple, massaging the bone-deep ache that resided there.

Bill had become much more violent in his recent interactions. His shrill voice had insisted that _'something is off’_.

“But the portal is finished! I used the rift in space just like you said to. It’s complete!”

“No!” Bill’s voice layered over itself, gaining a deeper tone.

“It is not that simple. We must continue forward.”

With a sigh, he grabbed the notebook resting on his nightstand and wrote down the equations the muse had given him as he dreamed. He’d toy with the portal today, testing out what he could. Maybe Bill would even take hold of his body and do it for him.

Stanford closed the notebook. The only good thing that came from this deal was added hours to his sleep cycle. At least his brother and his assistant hadn’t noticed much of a change in him.

The scientist would tell them.

Eventually.

But for now, Bill had warned him to keep them in the dark about the subject.

He pulled on his usual morning attire, slippers and a sweatshirt, before making his way downstairs. He rounded the corner, spotting his brother and his assistant in a heated debate, arguing across the table from each other. He paused. Would it be _so wrong_ to listen in to their conversation for only a moment?

“Quit worrying, Fidds. Something tells me that Ford won’t care about… us.”

The scientist snickered, covering his hand with a mouth. His brother would never shake his bad habit of lying instead of admitting the uncomfortable truth: that he had asked a “nerd” for relationship advice.

“I’m not worried!” Fiddleford implored with a worried tone. “I just don’t want to be fired. This is the best job I’ve ever had and I know Ford wasn’t dissenting of this… type of thing in college, but what if he’s changed his mind? Times are... difficult for people like us.”

“Fidds…” His brother’s tone was softer than he had ever heard it. This was getting too mushy for him. Stanford cleared his throat, alerting the two to his presence. Silence fell over the kitchen as he strolled in, headed straight for the coffee machine.

“Good morning you two.”

“G’morning Stanford!” Fiddleford called a bit too loudly. Stanford took a long sip from his mug.

“How did you two sleep?” Worry flashed over the smaller man’s face. Stanley stepped in for the absence of the other’s words.

“Comfortably. How about you?”

Stanford spotted the slightest tinge of grey peeking out from behind Fiddleford’s collar. He place his mug on the table, sighing to cover up the laugh threatening to escape from his lips.

“Not as well as you two, I imagine.”

Fiddleford paled. The scientist took a seat next to his assistant, hooking a finger around the man’s shirt collar and tugging it back. Just as he expected. His brother sure knew how to mark his territory. Stanford arched an eyebrow, swapping glances between the two of them.

“So. I take it you guys are official now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually made me have to update the content rating to 'Mature' (I hope that's correct, because I've never used AO3 before). 
> 
> Next week we return to monster hunts, and it might come out a little late, just a heads up.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment or kudos. Thank you all for your support.


	10. On Pins and Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations unfold, secrets are kept locked away, and an air of despair sets upon the trio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for bugs and general violence but especially drowning and broken bones.

Stanford mentally checked off the list in his head, mumbling along under his breath as he went. There were things to be done, and he knew if he didn’t orchestrate them the Shack would fall apart. Autumn was just around the corner; this meant more animals and supernatural beings breaking into his house and stealing from him. After last year’s incident with the gnomes, he shuttered at the memory, the scientist had decided to take more serious measures to keep out invaders.

The first item on that list was to wake Stanley. He wouldn’t let his brother sleep the afternoon away today. He nodded to himself as he climbed up the stairs. Then, he would go fetch Fiddleford and explain the situation.

The scientist was in a rush. He didn’t bother to pause before he threw open his brother’s door.

“Lee, I need you to get up so we can get a tooth from-- and you’re naked. I’ll see myself out.”

He could hear his brother’s loud laughter and an embarrassed “ _Oh my God_ ,” from Fiddleford as he marched back out of the room.

From beyond the door, Fiddleford had pulled a sheet tightly around himself. Moments ago he had been sound asleep, pressed comfortably against the boxer’s bare chest. Now, he was practically crushing himself against the head board and wishing he could go back to dozing off. The engineer groaned, pressing his hands against his aching eyes.

Half way through the night, he had been awoken by another nightmare, and had sat trembling in the dark until he had found his way into the other’s bed. The boxer always knew how to handle those things well; Fiddleford assumed the man had lived with quite a few nightmares himself.

Stanley was still laughing when the engineer slid out of bed. If his laugh sounded like a mule, then the boxer’s sounded like a gong: loud and reverberating. Fiddleford snatched his shorts off the floor and tugged them back on. He yawned, stretching his arms high above his head as he did so, pushing his shoulders back.

The laughter had subsided. Fiddleford turned back to the boxer.

Stanley was watching him closely, following the man’s every movement with his warm gaze. The engineer quirked an eyebrow as a silent question.

“You’re somethin’ else.” Stanley said sleepily, getting up out of the bed himself.

The engineer scoffed, glancing at the mirror over the man’s dresser. His bed head was atrocious, the bags under his eyes seemed more prevalent than ever, as well as the way his ribs jutted out when he took a breath. Not to mention the nose; that was something that he could definitely live without. He wondered what kind of rose-colored glasses Stanley saw him through.

Fiddleford pulled on his white, long sleeved shirt, and a green sweater vest over that before turning back to the boxer. The man was struggling with the small buttons on his shirt.

The engineer saw his opportunity and he took it. Any chance he had to touch the man again and feel him against his skin was one he was willing to take. He crossed the room quickly, halting in front of the boxer. His hands took over where Stanley’s had been faltering, his smaller fingers nimbly moving over the buttons. The boxer’s palms, now unoccupied, came to rest on the curvature of the engineer’s back.

When Fiddleford was done with the last button, he gave the man’s chest a small pat before his hands trailed upwards. They fastened on the collar.  Stanley hardly had time to register what was happening before he was being pulled down. The engineer _stole_ a kiss from someone who conned for a living.

Stanley couldn’t be prouder.

“Hurry up, we don’t have all day! Don’t make me come back in there.” Stanford’s voice called from behind the door. Stanley gave the engineer a good humored eye roll before stepping away and opening the door.

“Holy Moses, Ford, what do you need us so badly for? Can’t this wait?”

“No. We need to move as quickly as possible.” He hustled down the stairs, trench coat swishing behind him. He didn’t ask for them to follow, he simply expected it by this point.

“What’s wrong?” Fiddleford asked, voice tinged with worry, once they had reached the kitchen. Stanford procured a piece of paper from his pocket and began to unfold it. Once he was finished, a map engulfed the table; among the dense forest and several red ‘x’s, Fiddleford could make out a small drawing of the Shack.

“What is this?” The engineer breathed out, running a hand over the glossy surface.

“Our route for today, gentlemen.” Stanford said, earning a confused look from both of them.

“We’re going on a Gremloblin hunt.”

Fiddleford shot him a horrified look.

“No, you have to be joking, Stanford. We couldn’t take one down _last time_.”          

“Last time it surprised us. We were off our game, and had no way to defend ourselves or any knowledge about its eyes. I have a plan this time, so it should be relatively safe.”

“ _Relatively?_ I went into shock after I looked into its eyes for 10 seconds! I don’t want to have a repeat of that.”

“Listen, I know what that thing does to people. _Trust me_. And I wouldn’t suggest it if there was a better way.”

“Why are we even huntin’ this thing?” Stanley asked, pulling back a chair to sit in.

“It’s almost September. The creatures of the forest get antsier during this time of year. And those damn gnomes broke into our house _4 times_ last autumn. There’s no telling what they could bring in with them this time.”

“So,” He retrieved a journal and opened a page of what appeared to be a list, “what I want to do is cast a protection charm over this place. It should keep us safe for the next, oh, five years or so. No being of mild supernatural ability will be able to set foot inside.”

“What about demons?” Fiddleford asked quietly. The twins simultaneously tilted their head, giving him a questioning look.

“I-I was just wonderin’!” He blurted out. “I’ve been reading some research on them and they don’t sound too friendly.” Stanford placed a hand over his chin, pausing to think.

“It depends on the tier. If they are more powerful, they will probably be able to do whatever they want. But yes, it should be able to keep out some minor ones.” Fiddleford nodded, turning his attention back to his coffee.

“But not only that,” Stanford continued, not missing a beat, “but it should be able to keep out zombies too. Just in case you knuckleheads get the wonderful idea to read incantations aloud again. Zombies, gnomes, fairies, uh- minor demons, all gone!”

“Alright.” Stanley agreed with a sigh, leaning over to look at the map more thoroughly as he cracked his knuckles. The idea of something protecting the other two if he wasn’t around stuck with him.

“What do we gotta do?”

“Normally, I would already have all the items we need and we could begin. But,” He tapped the smooth ink against the paper, “I’m running low on supplies. Specifically, I need a Gremloblin fang.”

“What? You want us just to rip it out of the thing’s mouth?!” Fiddleford said incredulously, his mug making a small ding as it dropped back down against the table.

“Of course not. We’ll use the tranquilizer gun down in the bunker to take it out while it’s asleep. It’s nocturnal, so as long as we get there before sunset we’ll be in the clear. Just shoot it, grab what we need, and run.”

“What about the eyes?” Stanley asked. Stanford watched as the engineer shuttered, no doubt old memories flooding into the man’s mind of their last failed attempt with the Gremloblin, where he had fallen prey to its nightmare stare.

“We’ll take a page out of mythology, and use the Medusa method. We’ll all carry small mirrors that we can check around corners with. As long as you don’t look the real creature directly in the eyes, we should be fine.”

Fiddleford bit his lip, still unsure about the plan. The monster was massive, would they even have enough darts to take it out? What if it didn’t go to sleep? Stanley sighed loudly, gaining the other two’s attention.

“Well, if it’s to protect the Shack, count me in.” He voiced. The twins turned to Fiddleford.

“I guess since it’s two to one, I’m being pulled into this mess too?” He grimaced.

“Fine, alright, I’ll help.”

\--

Fiddleford eyed the molded rope that hang from the ‘tree branch’. Stanford’s design had been ingenious; no one would think to notice a singular tree in the dense forest. Their research would be safely hidden from the outside world, and locked away forever in case of an accident.

The only problem was that the trio were all much too short to reach the lever. On the occasions when they all went to the bunker, they made Stanley climb up and flip the switch. But when he and Stanford had halted going to the bunker altogether, Stanley had grown lazy enough to throw a rope around the lever.

Fiddleford tugged, standing on the tip of his toes to pull down with all his weight before it gave way with a metallic clank. The ground opened up, stairs unfolding and guiding his descent.

He made it through the traps with ease--it was much a much simpler thing to do without three people in a tight space--and even stopped to grab a handful of Pez from the dispenser he had left down on the last visit.

And then he was in the room, where his blood had once stained the floor. Where he thought he was going to die.

Stanford had assigned each of them a job so they could put supplies together more efficiently. He had given Fiddleford the task of grabbing the gun. From the bunker. With the murderous shapeshifter he hadn’t seen since it tried to choke him to death. The one he had directly avoided every chance he could.

All was silent behind the Plexiglas, unnervingly so. Not an inch of movement, not a single sound.

Fiddleford grimaced as he made quick work of digging through his old drawers. Stanford hadn’t had the faintest clue where they had left it; he had only been down once more after the second incident, before packing up his most valued things and rooting permanently to the lab under the Shack.

The engineer peeked around the filing cabinet. The only person who had been down on a regular basis was Stanley, and even he hadn’t used the thing in months. Where had the gun been tucked away?

“I never thought I would see you back in this place.” A version of himself growled form behind the glass. Fiddleford gulped, his blue eyes locking onto another pair too similar across the room.

“I wouldn’t be back here if I could help it.” He said stiffly, fuse already short with his former subject. Now that the Shapeshifter had been securely locked away, and they had the second back-up system (something of his own design called a ‘cryochamber’), he wasn’t afraid to get snippy at the monster.

Okay, maybe a little.

“You used to enjoy seeing me. The little assistant,” The Shapeshifter snickered, “Always so eager to run tests, following Stanford’s coat tails. You helped teach me how to read, even snuck me puzzles.” God, did his accent _really_ sound like that?

“That was before you changed.” He turned his attention to Stanley’s pile of junk stacked upon a table. He began sorting through the boxes, pulling out loose paper in neat stacks.

Still no sign of the gun.

“It’s my nature. You, of all people, should know that best.”

His mirror image followed his every movement, hands tucked behind his back in a similar fashion to what Stanford did when he was in deep thought. Fiddleford avoided eye contact at all costs, moving so the monster was only in his peripherals.

“Changing into others is one thing. Turning into a monster is different.”

“What did you expect me to do?” The Shapeshifter hit the glass, the other version of his face snarling. Fiddleford flinched, pulling his arms closer to himself. _No_ , his heart was _not_ pounding and he was _certainly_ not afraid.

“I was tired of the tests. I was tired of being locked away for so long. I do what comes naturally to me and you all leave me to rot in this cage. It’s inhumane!”

“You brought this on yourself.” He said shakily, trying to steady his breathing. Neither he nor Stanford had had the heart to put an end to the Shapeshifter’s life. He was dangerous, homicidal, and wanted him dead. But he had raised the thing. At one point they had been friends.

The Shapeshifter hit the glass with his fist. The dull thud resounded throughout the lab. Fiddleford jumped at the noise, glancing to make sure everything was still secure – it was – before returning back to his trembling search. The Shapeshifter snickered, pressing closer against the wall and moving to stand directly behind the engineer. He could feel the creature's eyes on the back of his skull.

The monster suddenly took a great intake of breath.

“You smell like cheap cologne and leather seats. That’s not even close to your natural scent. Perhaps, _someone else’s_?”

Fiddleford froze.                                      

“Tell me, how close have you grown to Stanford’s brother?”

The engineer said nothing.

“He gets upset when I turn into you. Is that why you got so unnerved when I transformed into him?”

Fiddleford tore his eyes away from the clutter to glance behind him. The Shapeshifter gave him a knowing sneer. He watched his own facial features stretch and twist, gaping holes where his eyes once resided were replaced with darker, brown ones.

“Stop.” He pleaded. The Shapeshifter laughed, its voice gaining a deeper tone, one he was all too familiar with. Fiddleford’s stomach lurched at the predatory grin that spread across the Shapeshifter’s face, across Stanley’s face.

“Fiddleford,” The voice shouted, false panic seeping into the Shapeshifter’s tone as he beat against the glass, “You gotta help me. You have to let me out. Please, I don’t know how much longer I can take this!”

The engineer wouldn’t fall for the trick. In fact, he wasn’t sure it was even supposed to be a trick, more of a way to antagonize him.

“Stop it.” He breathed, voice barely above a controlled whisper. _Where the hell was the gun?_

The monster broke out into a fit of booming laughter-- the boxer’s booming laughter. It felt wrong coming from such a vile thing’s mouth.

“What’s the matter, _Fidds_?” The engineer winced at the nickname, his fingers curling in tightly against his palm. The Shapeshifter had _no right_ to call him that.

“Not so pleasant seeing someone you care for in my position now, is it? Being half starved to keep me weak, being locked in this cell for years, and being left to _die_.” Fiddleford’s eyes scanned the room. As much as he tried to block the monster out, he couldn’t help but fall prey to its words.

“Would Stanley care enough to let you out?”

His eyes locked onto a long, dark shape. He had found it; the gun had been left propped up against the door to the Shapeshifter’s enclosure. He must have been subconsciously avoiding the place.

“Would you do the same for him?”

Fiddleford held his tongue as he placed one shaky leg in front of the other.

“Do _you_ care enough?”

The engineer has crossed the room, one hand on the gun--

“You certainly cared enough to make a deal.”

Fiddleford’s blood ran cold.

His heart leapt into his throat as he swiveled to face the Shapeshifter, eyes wide in disbelief. A smug grin worked its way onto Stanley’s features, mixed with the Shapeshifter’s own malicious intent. He was going to be sick.

“How do you know about that?” It was a demand, not a question. Fiddleford fought to keep his voice steady.

“Don’t take me for a fool, McGucket. I’m aware of the dealings of Bill Cipher. We’re practically old friends. He even lets me in on his secrets from time to time.” Fiddleford held the gun closer to his chest, clutching onto it until his knuckles went white.

“What are his plans for me?” He said with a gulp.

The Shapeshifter only gave him a knowing smile in reply.

“Please, I have to know.” And suddenly he was the one begging. The question had been driving him insane. Fiddleford had been extremely paranoid, never knowing when the demon could pop out and ruin his life. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep without a nightmare in two weeks.

“I intend to keep my promises.” The Shapeshifter clicked his tongue as he shook his head. Only three inches of glass separated them now. “Do you intend to keep yours?”

“I don’t have time for this game.” Fiddleford muttered, distain flooding through his voice.

“Don’t have time for--?! I know how every little detail of your life is going to work out! Did you really think you’d get a happy ending? I know Bill. And I will tell you this much: he’s ruthless. He always gets his way. And when he makes deals, he keeps them. He’ll end you and your friend’s lives and won’t even bat an eye.”

Fiddleford backed away, shaking his head as he gazed at the Shapeshifter in terror.

His back hit something sturdy. The engineer squeaked, fumbling the gun in the air before snatching it back down. He turned.

“What’s going on?” A feeling of solace overcame the engineer at Stanley’s voice, the real Stanley. He attempted to steady his ragged breathing, grabbing onto the boxer’s sleeve as he did so.

“Do I need to give you another warning?” The two Stanleys glared at each other, frowns stretched into snarls, fists balled. If there hadn’t been a wall between them, they would be at each other’s throats.

“What happened?” Stanley, the real one, asked softly, without taking his eyes off the caged monster. “Are you okay?”

“He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.” The Shapeshifter interrupted with a growl.

“ _Shut. Up_.” 

A hand rested on the engineer’s shoulder as Stanley finally broke the death glare.

“What did he do? I swear, if he’s threatening you again--“

“I’m fine.” Fiddleford said stiffly, hiding the quiver in his voice. The creature jumped at the chance, pressing his hands against the glass, a broad grin showing off his sharp canines.

“Oh, he doesn’t know? You didn’t even _tell_ him?”

“What’s he talkin’ about, Fidds?”

“N-Nothing! He’s just trying to get in our heads. Let’s just- Let’s just go.”

Stanley tore his eyes away from the smaller man to look at the Shapeshifter again. The monster beckoned the boxer forward. Fiddleford tightened his grip on the man’s arm.

“ _Please._ ”                                                                        

Stanley’s defenses crumbled away at that plea. He turned away from the Shapeshifter, letting the invitation drop.

“C’mon. Ford needs us back at the surface.”

“You’re an idiot if you ever thought things would work out for you in the end!” The Shapeshifter’s voice called as they reached the door. Fiddleford’s shaking hand froze on the knob.

“Don’t let him get to you.” Stanley muttered in his ear, the boxer’s arm finding the small of his back.

“You were doomed from the start!”

\---

Fiddleford had remained silent for most of the trek. He had stopped trembling, and regained his normal breathing pattern, but that didn’t stop the inner turmoil his mind was concocting. Half of him wanted to rock back and forth and scream continuously, the other half wanted to forget about this day and just go to sleep, and pray that the nightmares didn’t reach him this time. But instead, he was stuck on a hike. He gripped the small, pink mirror in his hand, threatening to crush it under the amount of stress he was going through.

Both twins had noticed his detriment, and had attempted to make the situation better. Stanford rattled off a list of cool robots they could design sooner when they finished the portal. Stanley had told jokes that even his brother had forced a laugh at, despite already knowing them. They we’re keeping their spirits high, for the engineer’s sake.

But it wasn’t doing much good.

Fiddleford appreciated the effort, he really did, but how was he supposed to break the news to the two that he might get them killed in the near future?

Their eagerness to fix the man had spiraled into borderline insanity; they had resulted in singing popular songs, _very loudly_ , in order to get some rise out of the man. Anything was better than silence and that haunted grimace.

Stanley made an absolutely _awful_ Bonnie Tyler, but Stanford was close behind with his back up performance on ‘Total Eclipse of The Heart’. _Bless their hearts_ , Fiddleford thought, letting the southern phrase slip through his mind, _neither can sing can sing to save their lives. Though,_ He supposed, _that may be the point._

 “Oh my _God_. You two are going to wake the damn thing up and every other monster in a 3 mile radius if you keep that up.”

“We could sing Livin’ on a Prayer instead.” Stanley offered, smile growing as he exchanged a glance with his brother.

“ _No._ I think my eardrums may start ble--” Fiddleford wasn’t paying attention to their sudden change in terrain, and tripped, falling into the muck his foot had caught on.

He pushed himself off the ground, making a muted noise of disgust as he wiped the mud off his glasses. The engineer sat straighter, examining his sweater vest and dusting off the dirt.

The twins broke out into fits of laughter, Stanford hunched over and shaking while Stanley pressed a hand over his mouth and offered the other to the engineer. Fiddleford glowered at them as he got to his feet. He had half a mind to slap both of them.

“This place is absolutely disgusting.” He said once the two had quieted down, “This thing _lives_ here?”

“It prefers to live in bogs and marshes.” Stanford opened his journal, shoving one of the three mirrors he had on him into his pocket. “My guess is that’s its more open and easier to hunt and defend territory. Plus, there’s water everywhere, so it could grow in size if it needed.”

“So it will already be mega-gremloblin when we find it?” Stanley asked.

“Most likely.”

“So let me get this straight.” Fiddleford crossed his arms. “Rather than luring it out, we’re going to right into its home, where it has the advantage, while it is three times the size of its normal self?”

“Well, yes and no. We have the advantage with the tranquilizers and the mirrors. ”

“Doesn’t that just even the playing field it rather than--” Stanley was cut off as a loud roar broke their hushed conversation.

A large oak tree shuttered, leaves and birds scattering from its snapping branches. Groaning resounded through the marsh, followed by three, echoing snaps. The tree seemed to rise, Fiddleford briefly realizing it had been _physically lifted_ , before grabbing onto the twin’s sleeves. He pulled them both back, the oak soaring through the air before landing ten measly feet away from them with a ground shaking crash.

“I thought you said it would be sleeping.” Fiddleford breathed, eyes widening as the creature roared again, sounding closer this time.

“I must have miscalculated; its sleep cycle must be off because it’s about to hibernate and--”

Another tree toppled, some poor animal caught in the way of the beast let out a bone chilling wail before falling suddenly silent. The engineer caught the tiniest glimpse of the Gremloblin’s glowing red eyes out of the tree line.

“Run.” Stanford whispered, tone changing into quiet urgency, “Run!”

Fiddleford bolted before the words had even left the scientist’s mouth. He threw his arms out in front of him, the muck holding fast to his shoes and threatening to bring him down with every step. He could hear it behind him now. The engineer’s feet hit the ground harder as he tried to gain speed, droplets of mud splashing against his face.

He breathed in a ragged breath, a sharp ache in his side slowing him down. The engineer halted all together, hunched over, hands on his knees, as he came to a fork in the road. Fiddleford wiped sweat from his forehead as he glanced to either direction indecisively.

“Fidds, this way!” The twins had finally caught up, Stanley snatching his hand and tugging him down the path that sloped downwards. _Downhill means more marsh_ , he thought hazily, glancing over his shoulder as the monster skirted the corner behind them. It was much too large to stop properly, sending rocks flying as it scrambled for a foothold.

 _If we reach water, we’ll be stuck,_ some part of him tried to reason through the adrenalin clouding his thoughts.

He opened his mouth to voice this aloud as Stanley came to a sudden standstill. The boxer looked over the small bank, roots stretching their stringy tendrils down towards the sudden drop and the steep hill that followed.

Fiddleford’s mind was moving too fast, he didn’t lean back in time, his shoes losing all traction.

He tumbled over the edge.

His body pivoted in the air, twisting around painfully as Stanley caught his wrist. The tips of his toes pressed against the curving dirt, his wide, fearful eyes focusing on the boxer in front of him. The man’s hands slid up to his palm, tossing a horrified glance over his shoulder at the bumbling shadow in the distance before looking at the engineer with a more pained expression.

His palms were too slick with sweat.

Fiddleford’s hands slid, from palms, to barely grasping fingertips, until he fell away completely. For a short, panicked moment, his hands clawed out at the empty air, hair falling in front of his face as a rush of wind pushed it forward. And then he was falling, the bottom of his stomach dropping out in an awful empty feeling.

The engineer’s back hit the dirt first. He fell limp, an unconscious defense mechanism. Though it didn’t do him much good, as he began to roll down the rest of the hill. Fiddleford squeezed his eyes shut, bouncing haphazardly down the slope, brambles tearing into his skin.

He fell down one more drop, muttering a curse in surprise as the falling feeling returned. He hit the muck quickly, rancid water filling his mouth. The engineer gagged, pushing his hands against the pulpous mud. He recoiled against the disgustingly warm, squishy materials seeping through his fingers.

Fiddleford stood, steadying himself against a tree and clutching his aching head. He gazed around the foggy swamp, thinking for a moment he had lost his glasses in the descent, only to find them crooked against his nose. He gingerly raised a leg, and then the other. _No broken bones_ , the engineer self-diagnosed. The water sloshed around his knees as his feet found the ground again. He put a hand against the tree, hissing when a sharp pain jutted up his wrist.

 _Okay_ , he corrected, _maybe one broken bone._

“Fiddleford!” He could hear Stanley faintly shouting in the distance, followed by more muted mutterings he knew was Stanford shushing his twin. He prayed they got away from the Gremloblin too, and that he hadn’t accidently abandoned them to die.

A deep, grumbling shriek broke his train of thought. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Something splashed close by, too close by. Fiddleford whipped around, eyes searching the cause of the noise.

A rumbling growl made his hair stand on end.

\--

Stanford clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth.

“Fi- Mph!”

“Be quiet! Do you _want_ it to find us?” Stanley shot his twin an appalled look before biting down against his six fingered hand. The scientist let out a choked cry of pain as he tugged back, shooting the boxer the fiercest glare he could manage.

“Fidds is down there somewhere. We have to find him before that thing does first!”

“You’re not going to help him by getting yourself killed.” Stanford hissed.

A branch snapped. The scientist flew into action, pulling his brother and himself behind a nearby bush. He shot the boxer a steely glare and prayed he wouldn’t smart off to him and alert the monster to their presence. Surprisingly, Stanley stayed quiet.

Stanford watched from his mirror as the Gremloblin examined the slope for a moment, and then leapt down. He winced as he heard a great splash.

Stanley practically shoved him out of the way as he rose to his feet.

“We have to get down there! _Now_.”

He tugged the other man’s arm as he peered over the ledge.

“Are you an idiot? We can’t just jump. Listen, the path we missed takes you straight to the deeper part of the marsh. It will be slower, but it’s our only option.”

The boxer eyes widened, brow furrowing into a look of pained anxiety. Stanford felt a pang of empathy for his brother.

“Fiddleford can hold his own. We need to move. Come on.” Stanley nodded, taking a deep breath and steeling a look of determination. Stanford started back up the path, his brother trailing shortly behind him as they scurried uphill.

\--

_No, it can’t be this close!_

The engineer’s eyes raked desperately over his surroundings. He needed a place to hide. Somewhere until Stanford could get the Gremloblin with a gun so he wouldn’t be _eaten._ Fiddleford was completely vulnerable until then.

His gaze fell on a partially uprooted tree, pressed against the bank he had toppled from.

It would have to do.

He waded through the waste-high water as slow and silently as his shot nerves would allow, forcing himself not to think of how close the creature’s footsteps were getting. He wanted to run. He _needed_ to run. Every part of his mind screamed it, his tense limbs begging him to flee. But the engineer couldn’t; the Gremloblin would hear him crashing against the water and murder him on the spot.

Fiddleford pushed back hanging clumps of mud and roots, nestling himself under make-shift cave the curving roots had carved along the bank. Loose pieces of dirt fell into his hair as the top of the cave began to rattle.

The thundering footsteps halted.

Fiddleford pressed himself against the wall as he heard something take a deep inhale above him. He held his breath and fumbled for the mirror. Clumsy, anxious fingers gripping onto it until his knuckles turned white.

For a moment he saw his face: colorless and fearful, hair limp and damp, plastered against his forehead. He was the epitome of hopelessness.

He angled the mirror, hands shaking.

The Gremloblin stood above him, long clawed feet peeking out over the edge of the cave, its hand digging deep into the bark. It was crouched; poised and ready to leap at the slightest hint of movement.

Fiddleford gulped. The creature didn’t look much different from the last time they had run into it. He could see the eyes: two glowing red orbs that would haunt dreams on their own, if not for their supernatural power to suck people into their worst nightmare. Jagged fangs jutted out from its square jaw, patches of wiry fur clung to its meaty form, only highlighted by the odd, sickly skin blotches. Worst of all was the musk, acrid and pungent like sulfur, filling the humid air.

His lung burned; the engineer had almost forgot he had been holding his breath the entire time. He clamped a hand over his mouth, letting the ragged breath be muffled by his fingers. Fiddleford’s heart pounded against his rib cage, threatening to leap out of his chest. It was much too loud, thumping against his eardrums. He feared that at some point, the beast would hear it and pluck him from his hiding spot. _Get ahold of yourself Fiddleford_ , he thought, _as long as you don’t make a sound, it can’t-_

Something slimy slithered its way down the back of his neck.

The engineer stumbled forward, splashing the water as his hands snatched at the crawling thing worming its way against his flesh. He pulled it out in front of him, throwing it into the air with a strangled cry as he realized it was a millipede. Its squirming legs spasmed as it flew away, falling into the water outside of the cave with a _plunk_.

Every inch of Fiddleford skin crawled. He had the sudden need to claw and scratch at every part of himself until the feeling evaporated. Bugs were fascinating, but meant to be kept at a distance. He was so caught up in the reflex that _that vile little insect_ had been running up and down his back _,_ he almost forgot about the monster inches away from him.

He froze as it growled again.

Its pointed, bat-like ears peaked over the side, and then its glowing red eyes. Fiddleford shut his own and blindly sloshed forward through the water as fast as his legs would carry him. He fell forward, rolling just in time as the monsters claws swished the air above his head.

The engineer resurfaced from the water, taking a gulp of air. He was still clutching the mirror. His eyes found the beast’s reflection behind him. It jumped. Fiddleford stumbled into a sprint, lifting his legs high out of the water, trying to escape the tug of the muck around his ankles.

The Gremloblin strolled after him in long strides, easily keeping up without exhorting any effort. It watched him like a cat watched a mouse, toying with its food before striking swiftly. And that’s what Fiddleford was now: a means of amusement. With a shutter he realized that was the only reason he was still breathing.

But the Gremloblin had soon grown bored with his new game; the chase was far too slow and there was too much struggling on the engineer’s part. It yawned, adding insult to injury, before easily cuffing Fiddleford over with a hand. He hit the water, heaving and sputtering as he resurfaced. He made a feeble attempt to crawl away. The Gremloblin knocked him over again, pressing him underwater.

The air left Fiddleford’s lungs as he was forced against the bottom of the marsh, his sprained wrist pinned painfully behind his back. A stream of bubbles left his mouth as he screamed, taking a deep breath and sucking water into his lungs.

The engineer struggled to get his head above water, for even a precious _second_ of air. Every sputter and exhale set his lungs on fire, deep set agony spreading through the muscles in his chest.

Then, all at once, all pressure was gone.

He found hold against the murky bottom and pushed himself up on shaky limbs. The first thing he did was take an enormous breath of sweet, sweet oxygen. The grave sting in muscles ebbing away into blissful expansion. The engineer hacked up water from his lungs as the world began to spin again, bringing him back to the present moment.

Clumsy hands found his hunched form and pulled him back against another warm body. Fiddleford clung onto the shoulders, seeking any sort of heat that would rid him of the frigid prickling in his lungs the icy water had left behind. He knew by smell that is was Stanley holding him so closely, and he knew by the monstrous roars behind him that they wouldn’t be able to stay this way for long.

The engineer had come far too close to death. His mind was still reeling, the world shifting around him in colorful steaks. He clutched the boxer’s shoulders as if he was the only thing anchoring him to the Earth.

“We have to get out of here.” He croaked as he pushed himself away. Stanley caught him as he faltered, legs still shaking from what he had endured.

“Not until we get the tooth.” Stanford growled, suddenly close to the other two. A sharp click signaled the fire of the tranquilizer.

One dart.

The Gremloblin hardly seemed phased. Its ears folded back against its meaty skull as it stared down peculiarly at the dart, miniscule in comparison to its own girth. It was no more than an insect bite; the monster didn’t even bother to remove it.

If Fiddleford had any strength, he would having been screaming at the scientist to _forget about the goddamn tooth_ and giving the lapels of his trench coat a good shake. Instead he only paled, following the boxer as the trio took cautious steps back. He focused on the beast’s discolored chest as it approached; his mirror was surely lost in the swamp.

The monster poised its claws in the air, clicking them in a fluid motion against the heel of its palm before lashing out at them.

“Neurotoxin!” Stanford warned as he ducked, reminding them of the venom coursing throw the hollow talons.

Stanley fell back, dragging the engineer down with him against the rocky shore.

Fiddleford fell on his injured wrist, whimpering as a searing pain shot up his arm. He jerked back reflexively when Stanley reached out to him, cradling the wound.

“Fuck, Fidds, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--”

The Gremloblin’s leg raised. Stanley went wide eyed before rolling away, the creature’s foot crashing down between the two of them.

Another resounding click, another dart. This time lodged into the monster’s shoulder. It turned, shaking a little in its step as it did so. Fiddleford hoped that was some of the medication kicking in. The amount of chemicals they had used would have been enough to knock out five horses by now.

But the Gremloblin was far too large, and far too determined to wipe them out by now.

It grabbed the barrel of the gun.

Stanford panicked, firing a shot into its meaty cheek.

But not before falling victim to the monster’s gaze.

Stanford seemed transfixed. Inch by inch his body became rigid and stiff, until only the slow rise and fall of his chest remained. All Fiddleford could hear was white noise; even the gentle babble of the marsh had grown quiet. The Gremloblin, very carefully, pulled the tranquilizer out of the scientist’s hand and tossed it aside. It skirted across the muck, coming to a halt at Fiddleford’s feet.

Stanford shrieked, the ear piercing wail ringing out through the marsh, six fingered hands rushed up to grip at his brown hair, tugging and struggling as the creature’s fixed stare locked him in place.

Stanley was a blur out of the corner of the engineer’s eye, tackling his brother to the ground and breaking the eye contact that held him captive.

The boxer was too busy shaking his brother’s shoulders, trying to get him to stop emitting that awful wail; he didn’t notice the Gremloblin, somewhat dazed, fixing its glare on him. Deadly claws stretched out, ready to scoop up Stanley, hot breath streaming out of its mouth as it opened its jaws.

Fiddleford looked on in revulsion at the monster. He wasn’t going to sit there like a dead slug while his friends were about to be eaten. Despite his trembling knees, he found the strength to stand and snatched the gun off the ground.

The engineer clicked the trigger.

No dart. They had only prepared three. His grip tightened on the gun as he flipped it around in his hands.

A cocktail of emotions swished unpleasantly through his chest. He picked one at random, anger, and let it engulf him. Fiddleford pushed down the heart stopping nervousness and decided for once, he was going to try the Stanley Pines method: to leap without looking, to charge head first into a fight he was completely unprepared for.

He dashed forward, raising the butt of the gun over his head and bringing it down against the Gremloblin’s back.

The tranquilizer gun bounced off the monster’s tough hide.

Okay, maybe that hadn’t exactly been _the best_ point of contact.

The beast, half dosed on heavy narcotics, turned, blinking in surprise at the tiny man challenging it.

It leaned down, tensing its leg muscles, arms like pistons at its side. Fiddleford gulped.

It lunged at him.

He shut his eyes tightly and swung again.

A deafening snap resounded from the butt of the gun. He cracked an eye open.

Luck had saved the engineer, pure, unadulterated luck.

The Gremloblin groaned, clutching its head as it fell over. It had taken all of their tranquilizers, and finally, a sharp blow to the head was enough to knock it down for the count.

Fiddleford blinked. Had he just saved their asses? Had he just taken down the four hundred pound beast that could literally make people see their worst nightmares with his own hands? A small, short laugh escaped his lips, mingling with the scientist’s screams.

The thing had terrorized him for two years. _Two years_. Two years of wincing at the mention of the Gremloblin, two years of being scared of going deep in the forest, two years of knowing too well what his absolute worst nightmare was and how desperately he had wanted to forget.

And he had taken it out with a gun that wasn’t even loaded.

Something akin to rage boiled in the pits of his stomach, bubbling up into his very core. He scowled, lip curling in abhorrence at the enormous beast that lay at his feet.

It wasn’t dead, but he wished it was.

He wanted to cause it as much pain as it had cost him, as it had costed all of them.

With a screech tapping from somewhere primordial in himself, Fiddleford smashed the end of the gun into Gremloblin’s face again. He grit his teeth as he did it again, with more force. He knew it wouldn’t die from this; its skull was much too tough. But he wanted to break as much of it as possible.

He was the only one screaming. Stanford had managed to calm down, and shake whatever horrible hallucination he was having. The twins sat on the bank, watching the engineer with wide eyes.

Stanford was the first to approach him, grabbing him by an arm and tugging him back. Fiddleford elbowed the scientist in the ribs, shoving him off before turning back around. Stanley was next, approaching him very slowly with his hands held out.

“Fidds, remember what you said? We just gotta get a tooth and go.”

Fiddleford snapped his head in the boxer’s direction, shooting him a savage glare. Stanley shut his mouth, fear flashing across his face. Fiddleford tightened his grip on the blood splattered gun, his ragged breathing invading the shocked silence. He looked from the brothers to the knocked out Gremloblin with more than a few teeth littering the ground.

They were afraid of him.

The back of his throat felt like it was closing up, tears pricking his eyes. Fiddleford’s heart felt heavy in his ribs. His arm fell limp, dropping the gun with a small splash. The engineer fell to his knees, staring blankly down at the water.

“Let’s just go home, okay? We’re gonna go back to the Shack now.” The voice was soft in his ear, a hand placed against his back. Fiddleford couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Can you manage? Would you like me to carry you?”

The engineer very slowly shook his head yes.

\--

Their pace back home was much slower with Fiddleford piggybacking on Stanley. He kept his face pressed into the other’s hair the entire ride home. They would occasionally shoot him a short question, just to make sure he was still responsive.

“Stanford,”

When Fiddleford finally spoke the two jumped in shock.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The scientist looked away.

“Doc, you can’t--”

“You and Stanley can continue to go on ‘monster hunts’. I’ll patch you up whenever you two get back. I’m just… so tired of fighting for my life every other week. Look, I’m starting to get grey hairs! I can't keep going with you two on these adventures. All you're doing is tempting fate. You're endangering our lives for your needs, and I don't want to be a part of that anymore. My place is in the lab, Stanford, not in the field.”

“Okay.” Came Stanford’s curt, gritted reply. Fiddleford had threatened this before, but they had always managed to pull him back in. But now, the scientist was starting to think it would be very different this time.  He wasn’t going to push it. No matter how dejected it made him feel.

For the first time in four years, Stanford Pines felt like the puzzle pieces of his life weren’t fitting nicely together.

When they finally got back to the Shack, Fiddleford set his arm in a splint and sat down on the sofa. He didn’t move for a long time. The shapeshifter’s words, the continued onslaught of the Gremloblin, the warnings of Bill Cipher, all replayed in his head in a sickening cacophony. He just wanted them _out._ He would give anything to have his ignorance back. 

Stanley appeared eventually, placing a blanket over the engineer and then resting himself beside the smaller man. Stanford joined them, sitting on Fiddleford’s other side as they flipped through the channels silently.

Fiddleford looked at their miscellany group, the blue glow of the television illuminating their faces. A scientist with an ego the size of his brain, who threw himself so intently into his work that he wrote out math problems in his dreams. A former boxer, ex-convict with a criminal past so wide and extensive that they couldn’t count the crimes on all of their fingers put together. And himself, the coward, the engineer, the one keeping secrets that could destroy them all.

He frowned, leaning more into Stanley’s side.

Maybe they _were_ doomed from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving on a sad note. The next few chapters are going to be that way, but things will come around. Maybe. 
> 
> Leave a kudos and comment if you enjoyed, I really appreciate feedback! Thank you.
> 
> 10/4/2015 edit: so I broke my computer, which has the next chapter on the hard drive (already complete, mind you) and it looks like I won't be able to post the next one until late next weekend when I have time to take it to a repair shop. Sorry to keep you guys waiting a little longer, but there's not much I can do to fix it and it will be worth the wait! Thanks.


	11. Love and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mystery Trio go on a delightful picnic. Nothing bad happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Wow, sorry for the weird updating schedule. My laptop, that had all of the files for this fic, was completely destroyed. Luckiy, the hard drive was still intact and I had to wait awhile before I could pull my old files an dout them onto the new computer. So sorry for the unexpected hiatus. I hope this extra long chapter makes up for it (even if it is mostly dialogue and really segmented)!
> 
> Trigger warnings for: minor gore

The day started, or rather ended, with how it had for Fiddleford the past few weeks: with a nightmare.

Tar seeped into his clothing, surging up along his legs as he tried to pull away. It clung on relentlessly, his muscles aching from long term endurance. There was no end in sight for the sea of sludge, stretching as far as his eyes could see. It seemed pointless to struggle, but the way the hairs stood up along the back of his neck told him he would meet a much worse fate beneath the surface.

He had to stop, if only for a moment to catch his breath. Even in his dreams he was an asthmatic. As soon as he had halted, the tar came alive, climbing up his body and tugging him down into the pit. He shrieked in frustration, pulling his hands above his head in an attempt to sever the strings of sludge weighing him down.

A hand erupted from the sea, blacker than night. It dug into his shoulder and pulled him down. And then another, fastening onto his other shoulder. More climbed up to join their kind, weighing him heavily, hanging on by his shirt, his legs his hair... He opened his mouth to scream. Another caustic hand shot up, burying itself in the engineer’s mouth. He gaged as it flooded through him, leaking down his throat and torching his insides. The thick liquid poured from even his eyes as he sank to his knees and embraced his end.

Fiddleford jerked upright in his bed. He ran a hand along his sweat-beaded forehead and through his messy hair. That dream had been so vivid. _Too vivid_.

The springs creaked as the man beside him sat up.

“Bad dream?” Fiddleford nodded, earning a sympathetic look from the boxer.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna start hanging dreamcatchers everywhere.”

The engineer gave a good humored eye roll, slinging his legs off the side of the bed.

“Wait, where ya goin’, Fidds? You still need sleep.”

“I don’t want to deal with the night terrors again.” He muttered, surprising himself with how defeated his voice sounded.

“Don’t worry,” Stanley sat up straighter, a determined look on his face, “I’ll fight away those bad dreams. They’ll never see me comin’.”

“I’m not so sure you can protect me there.” The engineer said so quietly, Stanley did a double take to make sure it wasn’t just the bed springs.

“Don’t talk like that. I’m always gonna protect you. You got that?”

Fiddleford turned to look at him, a countenance of silent appreciation furrowed his eyebrows.

“Thanks.” He said aloud. _Don’t go making that promise so quickly_ , he thought to himself.

“You’re welcome, nerd.” Stanley’s smile grew wider. He slung his arms lazily around the engineer’s middle and pulled him back, peppering his face with small kisses. Fiddleford broke into a fit of laughter, squirming beneath his fingertips. The boxer finished by placing one, long kiss to the man’s cheek and then giving him a peck on the lips. The smaller man sighed in content, leaning back against the other’s chest, Stanley’s face buried in his neck.

He loved waking up like this. Each and every morning was filled with little things that could fuel his happiness for the rest of the day, no matter how stressful. Whether it was cuddling, having Stanley’s limp arms enfolding him and watching the gentle rise and fall of the man’s chest, or the boxer sleepily whispering into his hair as he got up for Stanford’s insanely early work day; it always seemed he was adding onto the list of the little joys in his life. Fiddleford had never been happier.

He gave the boxer’s hand a final squeeze and pulled out of his grip. Stanley shot him a look akin to a kicked puppy.

“I’ll be back in a second. Let me just splash some water on my face.” The larger man nodded, settling back down against his pillow with an audible _THUMP_. Fiddleford snorted as he reached for his glasses and stood, making his way down the hallway and into the bathroom.

He was getting scruffy; the mirror had relayed the image of his newly stubbled face. He cupped his hand with cold water and ran it down his prickly jawline. The bags under Fiddleford’s eyes were dark and rapidly growing each night; his night terrors were beginning to effect his physical state. The engineer depended on the coffee machine almost as much as his employer did.

He shivered, guessing that’s what happened when you made a deal with a demon.

Fiddleford brushed his fingers down his throat. _Had it always felt so scratchy? Am I coming down with something?_ He thought, pressing hard against his windpipe. It felt as if something was lodged in his throat. _Funny, my breathing’s perfectly normal…_ The engineer forced himself to cough.

He felt something _move_.

Fear flooded his face in the mirror as his gripped the cold sides of the sink. The engineer hacked again, feeling dark fluid flood his mouth and spill into the sink. He jammed a hand against his chest, gagging at the acrid taste and oily texture. Something slipped onto his tongue. Something _hard._

Fiddleford dug his fingers into his mouth, nails brushing along the smooth surface. He gave a sharp tug.

A square piece of paper fell out of his mouth and into the sink. The engineer stared at it blankly.

With trembling fingers, he unfolded it from its perfect triangle, watching as the paper grew. His eyes found the words in neat, cursive writing in the middle of the page.

“Tick Tock.”

\--

The memory gun was coming along nicely. It was a side project of his; when he and Stanford had finished calculating more coordinates for different galaxies and stabilizing the portal, he could tinker with his new device with the free time he had.

And boy, did he have free time now. Once a week Stanford and his brother would go into the forest, leaving the engineer a solid five to six hour to do whatever he pleased. Of course, he’d have to keep a closer eye on the two in the days that followed, as they seemed to come back with more and more damage. He felt a pang of guilt in his stomach, hoping that it wasn’t his fault and lack of help that lead the two to get so beat up.

He twisted the screwdriver, fastening in the text pad (something he had scrapped from his computer days) to the gun. Fiddleford considered his invention a medical advancement. “Think of it!” He had explained to Stanford one late night, “every horrible memory gone! Awkward parties, wars, child abuse, all gone! PTSD will be cured!” He practically bounced with excitement everyday he got closer to finishing the gun.

A finger tapped on his shoulder.

Fiddleford turned around, the smile never leaving his lips.

“What are you doin’ down here so early? Stanford got you doing some lifting in the lab today?”

“No, just thought I’d stop by and say hello to you and poindexter before I went to get groceries.” Stanley grinned down at him, leaning against his desk.

“Mhmm, you’re lying.”

“What?” The boxer’s eyebrows rose as he put on a look of innocence. Fiddleford knew him well enough by now to tell the difference between his sincerity and when he was planning something.

“You’re scheming, I know that look.” He stood from his desk, looking over the scattered tools on their work bench. Fiddleford prodded through the mix of screwdrivers. Stanley’s hands rested on the other’s hips as the engineer turned, shooting the man an amused look.

“Okay, you’re getting too good at that.” Stanley joked. “I think we’re gonna have to break up.”

“Oh no,” Fiddleford rolled his eyes in mock distress, “what ever will I do?”

“You’d probably be bored out of your mind without me around. I keep it interesting ‘round here.” Stanley plucked a flat-head screwdriver from the pile, and gave the engineer a quick peck on the lips before handing it to him. Fiddleford snorted as he pulled out of the boxer’s grasp, returning to his project.

“So, what exactly do you have planned?”

“Weeell,” The boxer drew the word out, “before you _ruined the surprise_ , I was gonna persuade Ford to give you the day off so we could have a nice little picnic. Ya know, since you’ve been working so hard on the portal and junk. I thought it would be a good break.” He shrugged. 

Fiddleford softened. “That’s sounds lovely, Stan.”

“Good!” Stanley exclaimed energetically.

“Wait, it’s not out in the forest is it?”

“Yeah, but--“

“You _know_ how I feel about that place, Stanley.”

“It’s won’t be a monster hunt!” The boxer held up a hand. “I promise. Just a nice, normal, picnic. No danger whatsoever. We won’t even be out there all that long.”

Fiddleford frowned, pausing from his project to think it over. It was never ‘not a monster hunt’ when it came to the Pines. Trouble seemed bound and determined to find them.

 _“Pleeeeease_?” Stanley cut in through his thoughts, giving the smaller man a pleading look.

“Oh, alright.”

“Yes! I’ll just go talk to him and-- wait, where is Sixer anyways?”

“He’s in his private study, doing that weird meditation thing.” Fiddleford found it increasingly worrying that the scientist had been isolating himself so frequently. One moment he was going on about a strange cave he found, and the next, he was drawing sigils and meditating.

“Ah, maybe I shouldn’t bother him then.” Stanley’s voice gained a mischievous tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we could just sneak out without him knowing. Just real quick, and by the time he stops doin’ all that mumbo-jumbo, we’ll be back. He won’t even know.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound very-“

“Fidds. We’ll be in the forest, _alone_. Didn’t you say you wanted some alone time?”

“Well, yes, but--“

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.” His brown eyes met the engineer’s blue ones. Fiddleford caved in.

“Alright. But just a quick lunch.”

“You got it.” The boxer winked, tugging Fiddleford out of the Lab.

\--

 _“They’re leaving you behind again, Sixer_.” Bill’s voice echoed in his thoughts as he regained his body. The scientist shivered. Sharing a physical form with a muse was tough. He always felt slimy when he reclaimed his body.

Bill’s words made him freeze.

“Th-They’re allowed to do that. Just because they do it often doesn’t mean--”

The world went black and white as Bill appeared in his normal form in front of him. He swiveled around the scientist, hands tucked behind his back.

_“Think again. They’ll always leave you. How much do they really care?”_

“They care. I know Lee cares. It’s just sometimes--“

_“They are nuisances? You said it yourself, Stanford. That idiot brother of yours comes into your life, steals your assistant, and then keeps you from advancing. Your work has slowed down significantly whenever he gets in the way. Seems to me like you could do better without him.”_

_“_ Stop.” Stanford shook his head, turning to face the triangle full on. “This isn’t helping me with the portal.”

 _“You weren’t working on the portal anyways!”_ Bill picked up the journal Stanford had been working on, flipping through the pages quickly before throwing it back down _. “You’re stuck in your book again Sixer, obsessing over anomalies instead of the actual cause.”_

“I’m just hung up on some things. I want to fill up the rest of these pages with as much information as possible, but since Fiddleford stopped coming with us, less and less seems to be documented. And Lee and I, well, mostly myself, are focused on this local legend of the Griffin. I got a few things from a long time ago, but we can’t seem to find evidence anywhere.”

 _“Lucky for you,”_ Bill rubbed his hands together eagerly _, “your muse happens to be all knowing! And I just so happen to know that Griffins are a real thing and like to feed on smaller creatures like, fairies and trolls-- so just go where those things are found and you are sure to find one! And then you can finally get back to bringing forth the portal.”_

Stanford nodded, jotting down some information on a palm. Bill placed a tensed hand on his shoulder.

_“But, of course, you’ll have to bring your second-in-command along or your results won’t be worthwhile. Good for you, your brother was just about to drag him into the forest! Maybe you can jump in on that and steer them in a **different direction**. Then they won’t leave you like they we’re planning to. Even if you would be better off without-”_

 “Stop it!” He commanded, banging a fist on the table. The voice fell silent as the world regained color.

He ran a hand over his face. Stanley was important. His brother was certainly a screw up, he could admit that to himself, but he _just_ got the boxer back into his life. So what if the only progressive thing his twin had done for him could be easily accomplished on his own? And he didn’t always steal his assistant! Just maybe twice a week, three times on some occasions. But today was the day he and Fiddleford had planned to work relentlessly on the portal until they solved Bill’s problem. His assistant wouldn’t just abandon him, right? And his brother could even help with the heavy lifting.

Stanford rode the elevator down from his study, stepping out at the lab. He felt his stomach twist. No one was there; only Fiddleford’s half-finished gun remained on the counter. He turned, getting back into the elevator and riding it to the top floor.

He stepped out into the kitchen. Someone had left the cabinets open, but besides that, there was no one in sight. He grimaced. Maybe Bill was right. He had turned around, already on his way back to the lab when he heard voices from the next room over.

“Ya got everything?”

“Yes. Did you get the blanket?”

“Yup, nice a fluffy, babe.”

“You couldn’t think of a better pet name than ‘babe’?”

“I could just go back to callin’ you Fiddlesticks.”

“Stan, there is _nothing worse--"_

Stanford rounded the corner. Fiddleford stopped midsentence and began sputtering.

“Finally emerged from your science pod, bro?” Stanley questioned, putting his hands on his hips. His brother always knew how to play off situations. The scientist’s eyes darted between his co-workers.

“Yes. I was just about to come out and join the Doc in the lab, but I see you two are up to… _more important_ things.”

“We were just gonna go on a short picnic for lunch, honest Stanford. Y-You are welcome to join us if you’d like to!” Fiddleford felt bad for the man. One thing he had promised himself was that his new relationship would not come between his other friendships, but he had been failing that goal miserably. He didn’t mean to leave the scientist out, it was just that as the man became more occupied in his own occult interests, he had found himself pushing the other away.

Stanley looked thoroughly displeased at the engineer’s outburst.

“Well, I _am_ getting pretty hungry.” The smile returned to Stanford’s face. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Great!” Fiddleford interjected before Stanley could open his mouth to say something rude to his sibling. “Let’s go then!”

“And I know just the perfect spot!” The scientist said with new found zeal as he opened the door and stepped outside.

\--

Fiddleford put one foot in front of the other, desperately trying to ignore the Pine twins as they shot glares at each other. He kept a steady pace, moving between them to act as a physical barrier. Stanley, no doubt still pissed about his brother intruding on their date, continued to mutter things under his breath as they trudged along. Stanford kept a calm, anger about him, letting his steely gaze do the talking. Fiddleford pinched the bridge of his nose, deciding he must have been cursed to live with fighting twins for eternity.

Leaves crunched underfoot as they followed the rocky path. Fall was in full spring, enveloping the countryside with decaying plant life. The engineer found it borderline morbid how beautiful it all seemed. Even he himself was getting swept up in the swing of things.

An arm flew over his chest.

“Stop. Don’t take another step.” 

Fiddleford froze, anchored to the spot. Something he had learned quickly was to take the scientist’s warnings seriously.

“I need you to take a few steps back, carefully.”

The engineer nodded, following the man’s instructions. Stanford squatted down, resting on the balls of his feet as he studied an odd, orange and red--

“Flowers? You almost gave me a heart attack over a flower?” Stanley said, lips curling into an unimpressed sneer. Fiddleford let out a sigh, finding that he had been holding his breath this entire time.

“Not just any flower, Stanley. These are Begonias.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And they aren’t native to this part of Oregon. And they shouldn't even be alive this time of year.”

“What are they doin’ here, then?” Fiddleford questioned, leaning down to exam the small patch of sunset colored flowers springing up from the dead twigs and leaves.

“According to my studies, the gnomes are particularly fond of them. They use them for ritualistic purposes, ceremonies--“

 _“Booorring.”_ Stanford crossed his arms across his chest, foot tapping impatiently. “I wanted a picnic with Fidds, not a plant-ology lesson.”

“It’s called Botany, Lee…” The scientist rose from his spot, glancing around as he did so. He reached into his trench coat and pulled out a maroon journal.

“Normally, they would have a type of guard placed here to ensure the safety, but I don’t see on-- _aha_!” The scientist crept forward at a fast pace. Fiddleford shot Stanley an apologetic look before following his employer’s coat tails.

A tiny creature, resembling a small man (but with a beard far too long for its height) lay coiled up against a tree. Its chest rose and fell gently; by the quiet humming noise it was making, Fiddleford knew it was fast asleep. The scientist and the engineer approached it, quietly shuffling their feet across the grass.

Stanford flipped to a fresh page in the journal and began to mar its white pages with ink.

“How fascinating…” Fiddleford murmured, pushing his lenses up his nose. Stanford nodded as he sketched, first a beard, and then the face and pointed hat of the gnome blossoming onto the paper. They had seen these little devils before, mostly when they raided their kitchen during the winter, but never this close up and never this peaceful.

“Okay, this is getting too nerdy for me.” Stanley commented, rolling his eyes. Both researchers shushed him.

 His face fell.

“Okay, fine.” He said stiffly, “I’m gonna go look around the place while you two doodle.” The boxer paused, wondering if he could get some sort of reaction out of either of them. They seemed too engrossed in their work. Stanford shooed him away with a hand. With his shoulders slumping, Stanley frowned and flopped down in the middle of the clearing.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford crouched on his haunches. The gnome muttered something, giving a little kick in its sleep. The engineer held back a snicker. It was like watching a dog dream.

“Do you think we could get some beard hair or would that wake it up?”

“Probably wake it up.” Fiddleford whispered back. “But we can do that when we are finished with everything else.”

Stanford nodded as his pen stopped making its quick, thin lines across the page. He sat back, admiring his work. The engineer looked over his shoulder to look at the complete page. While he fell flat in the art department, both twins had a knack for it, especially with Stanford’s realism. The gnomes were identical. All that needed to be done was to collect a few samples and jot down more information on the creature.

And as he sat there, Fiddleford was suddenly overcome with nostalgia. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there were parts of monster hunts he missed. Those quiet, in-between moments of peacefulness before everything went to hell. When it was just the three of them everything seemed fun and exciting.

Apparently Stanford held the same sentiment, but of a different time.

“Do you remember Backupsmore?”

“Of course I do. What about it? The drum circles? Parties? The long hours spent in the library? The time we were banned from the robotics competition for creating an AI that wanted to destroy other robots and then ruined everyone else’s?”

Stanford laughed, bringing a hand to stifle it when the gnome thrashed in its sleep.

“Or when we blew off Professor Donovan’s toupee after you decided to ‘test something’ on the side during a lab?”

“What about when you stayed up for 40 hours straight because you were so anxious over midterms?"

Fiddleford grinned, remembering how he had created the ultimate concoction of coffee, energy supplements, and alcohol so he could function. He looked back on it fondly, though, during the time, those days had been dreadful.

“Why are you being so reminiscent today, Stanford?” He asked with a small laugh.

The scientist’s eyebrows furrowed as he stopped taking notes on the creature in front of them. He grew very quiet.

“Do you remember when we talked about opening up a lab together as soon as we graduated?”

Fiddleford felt all the fondness drain out of him. The engineer winced. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time.

“Yes. But you graduated a year earlier than me, and then disappeared off the face of the Earth as soon as you ran off to Oregon. Not that I blame you, I mean.”

“It all came together in the end, though. Right?”

Fiddleford was taken aback, his brow furrowing in concern. The scientist was obviously worried, maybe even preparing for something. But the engineer couldn’t help wonder: why now, of all times? After three years of being the Mystery Trio, why would he bring this up so suddenly? Stanford grimaced, running his hand along the frayed spine of the journal.

“Stanford, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“I just- You and Lee are the only friends I’ve ever really had. The last few months of high school without Lee were insane, and it would have been the same way in college if you hadn’t been there. You guys are the only people I can really be myself around, and I pushed you both away.”

“Don’t be like that--“

“No, but what I’m trying to get at, Doc, is that in the end, I think I made it all better. Right? When Lee contacted me, I agreed so he could help me and we put our differences aside. And then a couple months later, I called you up and we all met down here. I don’t think I ever officially apologized, but I did fix it, right? There’s no need for apology if everything is fixed. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Stanford, I have never been happier than I am here. I have a great job, a steady relationship, a good friend,” He elbowed the scientist at that one, “and you’re the driving force behind all of that. You brought us together and kept it that way. I wouldn’t be here without you. I can’t speak for Stanley, because I can’t imagine what went on in those five years he spent away, but I think despite all of it, he would thank you too.”

As if he had been summoned by name, Stanley approached them, stopping short above their sitting forms. He cleared him throat, gaining Fiddleford’s attention. Stanley fumbled with something behind his back before bringing his hand forward, holding out a flower to the smaller man. The boxer felt himself go red when his eyes locked with his brother’s, and the smug grin that had found its way onto the scientist’s face.

“For me?” Fiddleford said with a laugh as he stood. Stanley nodded; the engineer’s fingertips danced over his, light as rain, before pulling the flower out of his hand. Fiddleford tucked it behind his ear with a grin. The boxer couldn’t help but smile along, despite his teasing brother. He knew the gesture would _at least_ earn him a kiss.

“Did you steal this?”

“Technically, yes, from the ground.”

“Reminds me of your hippie days.” Stanford called as he stood and stretched.

“It suits you.” Stanley said, eyes flickering from the contrasting yellow petals to the man’s blue eyes.

“Thank you, darlin’.” Fiddleford drawled, reaching up to kiss the boxer. He pulled back after a moment, Stanley still gazing at him with a dreamy smile.

“Are you two coming or are you going to make out all afternoon?” Stanford said, already back on the path and ahead of them.

“I wouldn’t mind that second part too much,” Stanley said into the engineer’s ear, making the other snort.

“We didn’t even invite him anyways…” The boxer muttered, quieter before giving a sigh.

 “We’re coming poindexter, geez.”

\--

“Here it is!”

Stanford exclaimed as he threw down the blanket on a patch of soft grass, clear of fallen leaves and twigs. Fiddleford sat down, basket in tow, his legs crossing against the checkered pattern. The twins followed in suit, making themselves comfortable as Fiddleford began pulling out food.

“I’ve got stuff for sandwiches: turkey, ham, salami for Stanley--“

“Alright!”

“-and some chips. That should be enough, but we can all only have one sandwich.”

“Why only one?” Stanford questioned as he grabbed the plastic plates from the basket.

“Well,” Fiddleford began, readjusting his glasses, “we’re running low on food supplies at the Shack.”

“Why didn’t you go out and buy food, Lee?” Stanford questioned as he slathered a piece of bread with mayonnaise.

“I was gonna go to the grocery store after the picnic.” His brother grew quiet, looking like his was recalling something.

“You know, I don’t ask you to do much. If we’re out of food that we need for a picnic then why didn’t you go _beforehand_?”

“Because if it had just been me and Fidds, we wouldn’t have had this problem.” The boxer said through clenched teeth, barely above a whisper. Fiddleford watched as the man’s hand clenched around the blanket. He gulped.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Stanford snapped, a fire alight in his eyes. There was no stopping it now.

“I said if you hadn’t invited yourself to our date then we wouldn’t be having this problem!"

“Stanley!” Fiddleford gasped, shooting the man a sharp look. “Be nice.”

“ _Be nice?_ He just waltzes in here, ruins our evening--”

“I didn’t invite myself! Fiddleford invited me.”

“He was just being nice. Other people aren’t supposed to tag along on dates. You were supposed to turn him down.”

The energized air suddenly grew silent as all eyes turned to Fiddleford. He gulped, holding up two hands defensively.

“Is that true, Doc?”

“W-Well, I was just… You see, I never meant to…” He bit his lip, unable to finish the sentence. On one hand, he could admit the truth and have Stanford hate him, and on the other hand, he could lie and have the other twin, the one he was _sleeping with_ , hate him. Things were not looking good.

Luckily, he was interrupted.

Unluckily, it was a screech that did so.

The trio looked up into the air, at the small black dot approaching them in the sky.

“What is that, some sort of bird? It’s really tiny.” Stanley squinted his eyes, blocking the sunlight with his hand as he looked into the sky..

“I think that’s just perspective.” The scientist answered. Was it just him, Fiddleford asked himself, or was the thing getting closer?

_And larger?_

“Fellas--!” The words were barely out of his mouth before the monster was upon them, swooping in from the sky. It was certainly not just a bird, or like any eagle he’d ever seen. It was avian-like in the face, with a bulky curved feet. The body was a different story; its back legs were massive and furred, ending it cinderblock sized paws. The front legs, the one with talons, stretched out towards them.

Claws dug into Fiddleford’s shoulders before he could duck. He panicked as he felt his feet leave the ground, the twins growing steadily smaller and father away, their shocked faces locked onto him. The engineer’s legs kicked out at empty air, his hand clutching onto the fur above his head as the tree line grew tinier and tinier, until he could only make out a faint, green blur.

Fiddleford screamed.

\--

“It took him.” Stanford voice cracked as he looked to his slack jawed brother.

The boxer took a few steps forward, picking up the yellow flower that had fluttered to the ground.

_“It took Doc.”_

“Holy shit. _Holy shit!_ Where did it even go?” Stanley’s hands found his hair and clenched against his scalp as he shook his head in disbelief. “How was it that fast? He was just here a second ago, I--!” The boxer sucked in a breath before he continued rambling, “It just took him! How do we find a monster that has _fucking wings?”_

“Get ahold of yourself.” The scientist tugged his twin’s hands down before shaking him by the shoulders.

“Get ahold of myself? My boyfriend just got picked up by a _fucking vulture--"  
_

“A Griffin.” Stanford corrected.

“A _what?”_

“The creature that got him is called a Griffin, it has the head of a--”

“Do you think I _care_ about what that thing was?” Stanley grabbed his brother by his shirt, fist tugging the fabric up. “It just took Fiddleford and you’re worried about its _scientific name?!_ Unless you can tell me how to kill the bird then I really don’t care.” The boxer snarled, giving his twin a hard shove once he let go of the fabric. He began pacing, hands moving in muted gestures as he muttered to himself. Stanford sat down on the ground, searching through his journal for what little notes he had managed to gather on Griffins.

“The Griffin should live high up, maybe on the cliff somewhere? No, that’s just over a heavy populated area, and they don’t like those. Maybe on some sort of tall rock face…”

He squinted, making out the short, curt writing he knew was one of Fiddleford’s corrections.

“Prey mostly on gnomes…” He read aloud before sitting straighter.

“Lee!” He called. The man stopped in his tracks. “If it was focused on gnomes, then it probably caught a scent of the gnome of Fiddleford, or maybe even his flower.”

“Wait, are you saying it’s because of me that Fidds got snatched up?” The boxer paled, shoulders drooping. Stanford said nothing, almost taking delight in his brother’s failure. The fight was anything but forgotten from his memory. If not for Fiddleford’s sudden kidnapping, they would still be fighting.

“What I’m saying,” He finally intervened, “is that the gnomes might know where it lives. And if we find that out-”

“Then we can go get Fidds back?”

Stanford nodded. His brother’s eyebrows furrowed, a frown tugging his mouth down. He beat a fist against his open palm.

“Alright. Let’s go pummel some smurfs.”

\--

Fiddleford had taken to tightly shutting his eyes and praying for a quick death. Hopefully, the Griffin would just tear into his throat instead of dropping his meal into the gorge to retrieve for later. If the engineer didn’t have a fear of heights, he most certainly did now.

The grip on his shoulders was painful, but no more than a continuous pinch. And that wasn’t particularly reassuring. He almost wished it had dug into his skin.

And then they were dropping, Fiddleford’s hands finding purchase on the monsters scaly front legs. His stomach did a nauseating flip, the breath in his throat catching at their sudden descent. He had nothing to hold him up, just talons loosely locked on his shoulders that could easily open whenever the monster pleased.

The talons did just that: they opened.

“No, no, no, no!” Fiddleford clambered for ahold against the Griffins fur, but it easily shook him off as it glided through the air. His fingers slipped through the hair. He had heard of falling described as ‘being weightless before’, but it seemed much the opposite. There was absolutely _too much_ weight. So much so, it was making him plummet at great speeds. He realized about half way through his descent that ‘No!’ was an awful attempt at last words. At least no one was around to hear him beg for mercy at his last moments of life.

His fall lasted about three seconds, before he hit something.

The engineer groaned, rolling over on his stomach and pressing his face against the wiry surface that had caught him. He pushed himself up, looking over the odd assortment of branches, straw, and thread.

 _I’m in a giant bird nest_ , he thought blankly, as he moved to look over the side and the sharp incline of rock that followed.

The Griffin screeched again, gaining his attention. He watched as it circled around above his head for a moment, before flapping its wings and gliding away on a gust of air.

_I am going to die in a giant bird nest._

_\--_

The gnome was wailing.

That was definitely something he could do without. It took all of Stanley’s self-control, something that was already very limited in supply due to his brother, not to slam the creature against a tree and take out all of his anger on it. Instead, the boxer put a hand over its mouth, muffling its desperate pleas. When the thing finally shut up, he let it dangle in the air, one of his fists curled around the back of its blue shirt.

“We’re not here to hurt you. We just have a question we need answering.” Stanley let his brother do the talking; the only negotiating he was good at was when he had one hand on a baseball bat.

“Nope, you ain’t getting an answer out of me, bub! I’m not talkin’ to any of your kind, no sir.”

“Listen, _pal_.” Stanley gave the gnome a quick shake. “You’re gonna answer us and you’re gonna like it. Capisce? Then we’ll let you go back to napping.”

“Alright, alright, geez! What do ya wanna know? Where to get some fairy dust around these parts?”

“No.” Stanford said firmly. “We want to know where the Griffins roost.”

“The Griffin?!” The gnome flinched, making itself somehow smaller.

“Yes, just tell us where it lives. It takes your people, yes? Do you know where it takes them?”

“U-Up by the cliff side, about a mile north of here! You’ll see some birches, lots of ‘em right before you get to it. It has a big nest on the rocks just overhanging the gulley. You’ll never be able to climb that thing without it finding you and throwing you off first.”

“We’ll find a way.” Stanley grit his teeth and let the gnome go. It hit the ground with a small “Oof!” before picking up its fallen hat, placing it back on its tiny head, and scurrying away into the underbrush.

Stanley shook his head as he watched it go, wiping his hand on his pants. The gnome was absolutely caked in dirt. Stanford sighed, briefly opening his journal to make a quick note.

“So what? Are we going rock climbing and saving Fidds, or are you going to put your book before your friends, again?”

“ _Again?_ What’s that supposed-- Never mind! We don’t have time for this. We’ll ‘talk’ about this whole mess as soon as we get Fiddleford. Now are you going to stand there and keep badgering me or are we going to get moving?”

Stanley said nothing, only followed his brother as the man pulled out a compass and began the long hike.

\--

The Griffin was back. The nest shook as its massive paws connected with the woven fibers. Fiddleford curled in on himself, crawling as close to the edge as he could without tumbling off the side of a mountain. His hand clamped around something wet, curved along the floor. The engineer recoiled, pulling back his hand to reveal a brown, gelatinous liquid he knew was drying blood. Fiddleford pushed down the bile that arose in his throat.

The monster gave a sharp, cawing shout, before approaching the engineer, head lowered, shoulders bulking as it prowled nearer. Fiddleford grabbed a pointed femur from the stack of bones he had discovered only seconds ago. He clutched it tight to his chest, scooting around the edge of the circle.

The Griffin only seemed interested in the pile of carnage.

The engineer let out a sigh of relief as the monster neatly folded its paws and began to gnaw on remains of previous victims. The sight wasn’t too pleasant, Fiddleford winced at a particularly loud squelch, but at least it wasn’t _him_. The beast was still working on the appetizer.

He tore his eyes away from the Griffin and glanced down at his watch.

_Where the hell are they?_

It had been thirty minutes since he had been abducted, surely the twins were on their way to save him. He looked back up, noticing with a gulp that the Griffin’s golden eyes were fixed on him. It emitted a soft growl, the arm bone of some unfortunate creature before him snapping in its beak.

With a tiny whimper, Fiddleford looked over the side of the nest, hoping that Stanford and Stanley would be arriving soon.

Otherwise, he was going to be lunch.

\--

“C’mon Ford! We need to move faster. He’s been up there for at least--”

“I’m hurrying as fast as I can!” The scientist snapped, doubling over as his lungs burned. He could do hikes, he could do short running distances, but his brother making him run up a slope of about 80 degrees for the past twenty minutes had been _excruciating_.  His feet kept slipping against the craggy, barren surface, there were no trees or even grass to pull himself up on if he stumbled, and he was pretty sure his legs were going to give out any second now.

 _“Not very considerate on his part, if I do say so myself.”_ Stanford blinked in surprise at the voice in his thoughts. It wasn’t often that Bill interrupted his internal monologue on monster hunts; the muse had found the whole concept ‘a waste of time’.

“Not all of us have the free time to hit the punching bags. _Some of us_ work, you know. On the portal.” It was Bill’s voice, but with a jolt Stanford realized it was coming out of his mouth. These spontaneous possessions had gotten him into tight situations before, especially when he had ended up calling Fiddleford a ‘worthless mortal’, but with the withering look Stanley shot him, he knew this was different entirely.

“Are you callin’ me a freeloader?”

_“Call him a freeloader!”_

_Shh! Bill!_

“Keep it up, poindexter, and you’ll be finding Fidds with a black eye.” Stanley growled as he reached the rocky summit of the hill. Stanford huffed for breath as he stood next to the boxer, his mind trying to process the words.

“Is that a threa--”

“Get down!”

The scientist followed his brother’s hissed warning, dropping flat against the ground. With a sharp screech, the Griffin rocketed from the other side of the rock face, flying into the air and coasting over their heads. Stanford held his breath as the monster’s head swiveled to survey the ground below him.

Blood dripped down from the beast overhead, splattering against Stanford’s face. With a disgusted noise, he wiped it off with a hand. When he realized what it was, the scientist went as still as stone.

The Griffin's head turned forward again as it stopped circling, finding no threat. With one flap of its enormous wings, it rose above the clouds.

Stanley is the first to stand back up, wide eyes focused on the monster flying away from them. He started to offer a hand for his brother, but retracted it and stuffed it in his pocket. The boxer opened his mouth to make a snide remark, but quickly shut up at the dismayed look spreading across his brother’s face. Wordlessly, the scientist only managed to hold up a palm with a few drops of blood smeared across the fingers.

“It came from the Griffin.” He said very quietly.

“Fidds...” Stanley responded in a hushed tone, and then a louder, “Fidds!”

“I-I’m down here!”

The twin’s heads snapped to the direction of the shaky voice, scrambling past each other in a mad dash to get to the edge of the cliff. Two sets of pupils traveled down the snaking roots that held the tree sideways against the bleak rock face, and the large, woven nest that clung to its branches. And the small man, curled against the side, hair mussed in odd angles, covered in blood.

Stanley threw himself off of the edge and down into the tree without another thought. His hung from a branch momentarily, before dropping down into the nest. It shook with his sudden weight, eliciting a whimper from the engineer. The boxer slowed his paced, more for Fiddleford’s sake than anything. He wasn’t scared; if the nest could hold something as huge as the Griffin, it could hold three people.

Stanford carefully climbed down the tree, watching as his brother pulled the engineer in for a tight hug. His feet hit the ground; Fiddleford pushed back the larger man a moment later. Stanley cupped his face with a hand, using the other to wipe away the blood covering the engineer’s cheeks.

“Where are you…?”

“It’s not my blood.” The engineer said coldly, moving away from the twins. He threw a sharpened femur at their feet, the bone still slick with fresh blood. Stanley shared a glance with his brother in the shocked silence, Fiddleford turning his back to the both of them.

“We’re going home. Now.”

\--

The air was tense during the trudge home; Stanford felt like the tiniest noise would cause a catastrophic explosion. They walked in a straight line, not shoulder to shoulder, Fiddleford stiffly lead the way back. He hadn’t made eye contact with anyone since Stanford had helped pull him out of the tree. Stanley followed closely behind, occasionally swerving or darting forward to get a glimpse at the engineer’s expression. Bill was right: his brother did follow Fiddleford like a lost puppy. He, himself, brought up the back, feeling more excluded than ever.

 _“Then why don’t you bring it up?”_ Bill hissed in his mind. Stanford could picture him, calmly lounging in the mindscape. “ _You shouldn’t kept these things bottled up. It’s unhealthy!”_

Stanford said nothing and continued to stare glumly at his shoes as he stepped over a root and up the Shack’s front porch.

“Stop.” Came Fiddleford’s sharp voice. Stanford looked up. He had missed the exchange, but he could see the engineer tugging his hand out of Stanley’s. The boxer stepped back.

“But Fidds…”

“Don’t you ‘but Fidds’ me. I _told you._ I told you I didn’t want to go out into the forest ever again, but you promised nothing would happen. You _promised,_ Stan.”

“I didn’t know--"

“What was the one thing I’ve told you, told both of you?”

“That you didn’t want to go on monster hunts anymore.” Stanley said quietly, hands falling to his side. Stanford watched the exchange from a more calculating standpoint. The boxer’s voice broke him from his musings, “Fidds, I’m sorry. I never mean for you to get hurt--"

“And you!” Fiddleford rounded on the scientist, Stanford throwing two hands up in defense.

“I can’t believe I invited you along. Something tells me you’re not totally innocent in this. You picked the place, you found the gnomes… Did you know there was a chance of one of us getting carried away by that thing? Did you _want_ it to find us?”

Stanford opened and closed his mouth like a fish trying to breathe. He fumbled for the right words. Of course he knew the risks, he always knew them. Fiddleford scoffed, shaking his head in disappointment at the scientist.

“Wait a second,” Stanley growled, face shifting from wounded to betrayed, “You _knew_ something like this would happen? You offered up a ‘great picnic spot’ so you could have another monster hunt? You _knew_ one of us might get hurt?!”

“Stanley, Doc… There’s a risk with every outing we take. I just- I just wanted us to do something together again.”

Fiddleford’s shoulder’s sagged, pity replacing rage. He had tried to include the scientist as much as possible; he wasn’t going to let a relationship come in the way of their shared friendship. But the man still felt excluded. He didn’t want to fight anymore, he just wanted to go home and forget this had all happened.

Stanley, on the other hand, was angered even more at the statement.

“You selfish little--! Fiddleford could have died.”

“Me? I’m selfish? I invite you into my home and let you live there out of the kindness of my heart and you call me _selfish?”_

“Oh, congrats! You’re a real stand up brother for actually treating me like a person.”

“Stanley. Stanford. Settle down, now--” Fiddleford tried to intervene, but was overshadowed by the boxer’s shouting. Stanley closed the distance between himself and his brother, ramming a finger into the scientist’s chest as he spoke.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like? Living on your own for years? Being Homeless? Getting mixed up with Mexican Mafioso? Do you have any idea what I had to do for cash?” Stanley didn’t wait for his brother to answer before continuing, “No. You don’t. Because you’ve always been the favorite, you’ve always been expected to succeed, and you’ve always gotten everything you wanted.”

“Everything I’ve ever wanted? I had the chance to go to my dream school, Stanley. The most prestigious school. And you ruined it!”

“You’re school ruined our plans for the future. We’re were gonna go sailing! I didn’t mean to hit it, and you ruined my life over an accident.”

“You ruined your own life!”

“You ruin _everything!_ ”

Stanford flinched at that comment, as if it had physically hurt him. He glowered, brushing off imaginary dust from his coat as he turned on his heel and began to walk towards the forest.

“Stanford! Wait!” Fiddleford cried, grabbing onto the scientist’s sleeve before he could get very far.

“Stanley doesn’t mean that.” He whispered. “You know how he is. He’s just a little upset that he didn’t get his way. Please, let’s just go inside.” Fiddleford gave the man a small smile, hoping to break him down.

“I don’t know what he’s tellin’ ya, poindexter, but good riddance.”

The two whipped around at the boxer’s comment, Fiddleford giving him a stern look that read “you’re sleeping on the couch tonight”, while Stanford shot him a glare that read “DEATH”.

He didn’t know which one was worse.

“Good riddance?”  Stanford roared, stomping back towards his brother, Fiddleford still gripping onto his arm and trying to hold the scientist back. “Good riddance? Maybe I will go. But do you know where you would be without me?”

“Where?” Stanley raised up his arms, daring the man to finish his sentence.

“You would be dead without me. Homeless, futureless, all those horrible things you were before I gave you a chance to do something worthwhile in your life.”

“Stanford. Stanley. Calm down, both of y’all.”

“What do you want, a fuckin’ medal? Where would you be without me watching your back all those years?”

“Statistically speaking, better off! My life was great without you there, Stanley. You wouldn’t have ruined my chances for getting into my dream college, for one. Without you there, I moved on. I went to college. You weren’t there to hold me back like you had been doing our _entire lives!”_

There was a coldness to Stanford’s voice that the engineer had never heard before. This wasn’t Stanford. It _couldn’t_ be him.

“Shut up!”

“Face it, Lee. I made you everything you are today. Without you, I was just fine. But without me, you would be nothing, you inconsiderate--”

Fiddleford ducked out of the way as Stanley’s fist connected with his brother’s face.

The scientist stumbled back, leaning over and cradling what Fiddleford knew would become a black eye.

“Get out.” Stanford said hoarsely, pointing past the porch. “Get out of my house.”

Fiddleford shot the scientist an incredulous look. He couldn’t be serious. Right? His eyes followed the man’s cold glare back to the boxer. Stanley’s tough demeanor had faltered, one foot frozen on the first wooden step. He flinched, eyebrows furrowing against his wide brown eyes.

He had never looked smaller.

And then all at once, the boxer’s face contorted into something beyond resentment. With a stab of grief, the engineer realized it was betrayal. He looked from the ground to his brother before sucking in a cold breath through his teeth.

“You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself, do you?” When Stanford said nothing, the boxer continued on, “Fine! I don’t need you anyways. I make it on my own, I’ve done it for years.” He roared, hands balled into tight fights at his side, arms rigid.

He stomped the first few steps to his car before suddenly halting. He turned, feet crunching against the brittle leaves as he hustled back. The boxer slowed his steps before reaching the engineer, pulling the man’s hands in his own.

“Are you comin’ with me?”

Fiddleford’s throat tightened, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. He gave the Shack a quick once over, before turning back to the man in front of him. He saw the slightest bit of the boxer’s eyes alight with hope. His stomach dropped. The Shack had been his home for the better of three years. Could he just up and leave it, living on the road with Stanley?

The engineer knew his answer.

He bit his lip as his shoulders sagged, the words dying in his throat. Stanley didn’t need them to understand the pain in his lover’s eyes. Something he had learned in their closeness was how to know what the other meant without words. His hands slid out of the smaller ones he was holding so tightly.

“Okay.”

For all the effort Stanley had went through to keep his voice steady through the fight, now was when it finally cracked. The word sounded more like a defeated whimper than a resolve. Fiddleford winced as he watched the boxer force a strained smile, acting like the unspoken ‘No,” was something he could just brush off.

As Stanley climbed into his car, Fiddleford’s legs were as still as stone. He couldn’t bring himself to move an inch. The engine roared. Fiddleford’s chest tightened. He really should run out and stop him. Stanford could go back on his word. But with a glance at the steely eyed scientist, the engineer knew the man was much too prideful to do so. The distinct crunching of tires on gravel grabbed at his attention again.

 _This can’t be happening._ The thought ran through Fiddleford’s head uselessly.

And then he was gone.

The engineer heard the screen door slam behind him, but made no indication to follow the scientist back inside. Fiddleford looked to the edge of the road, the one Stanley had disappeared over only moments ago.

Numbness set in, chilling the engineer to the bone. He felt hollow, as if even his heart had stopped its incessant beating. Fiddleford ran his hand along the splintery steps, searching for something to grip and anchor him to reality again. He hadn’t even recalled sitting down.

His head was spinning. No, _Stanley couldn’t possibly be gone. He just couldn’t. People didn’t make themselves an important part of your life and vanish without a trace._ Any second the boxer would come trudging back down the road, he was sure of it.

_Any second now._

Seconds turned to hours.

The wind was biting. Fiddleford ran his hands up and down his crossed arms. The dropping temperatures in Oregon during the fall was just something he had never gotten used to, even now. But any moment Stanley was going to come back, scoop him up, and put him into their warm bed. The engineer didn’t care if he got a cold; he was fine with waiting. 

“Fiddleford,” A face, too familiar and so different at the same time, appeared in his peripherals.

“Come inside. It’s getting late. And cold. We have work to do tomorrow and I don’t need you sick.” The words were stiff, but there was something remorseful about the tone. The engineer stared blankly at the man, not budging from his spot.

With a sigh, Stanford went back inside, only to return moments later with a blanket. The scientist handed him the carefully folded fabric before sitting next to him on the porch steps. Fiddleford ran his fingers over the smooth surface, reminded of a time much earlier, on a dark night like this, where Stanford had brought him something to cover up with and tried to comfort him. Both times he had lost someone important, only this time he hadn’t expected it to be Stanley.

He felt no anger; he was completely burnt out on that. He skipped right to bargaining, all too aware of his mind trying to cope with loss. Fiddleford’s hands tightened around the sheet covering him. Maybe he could find Stanley before he left Oregon. Maybe he could convince him to come back. Hell, he’d drag him back if he had to. But would Stanford let his brother back? Would he kick out his assistant too?

He sighed, putting his head in his hands. All the hypotheticals were useless. He forced a shaky exhale, suddenly realizing exactly how ragged his breathing had grown, and that his hands were trembling against his face. The awful, tightening feeling returned to his chest. Everything was crumbing around him, and the one factor, the one person who had been able to stabilize everything, was gone.

“He’s not coming back, is he?”

Stanford looked away, turning his attention to the cloudless night sky instead of the trembling engineer before answering,

“No. He’s not.”

\--

Stanley slept in his car that night. He had pulled over on some dirt road just on the outskirts of Oregon. It was cold; he wouldn’t want to risk using the gas to run the heater. He regretted not nabbing some of Stanford’s fund money before he left. He had fifty bucks to his name. In one day he had gone from happy to homeless.

And it was all because of his big mouth.

For the first time in months, no one sleeps by his side. There is nothing more he hated than a cold mattress. Well, that was wrong. It was the second thing he hated the most.

The first on the list was dedicated to himself.

\--

Stanford threw himself down against his desk at the lab the moment his brother was gone. He couldn’t bear to face the engineer now. He stared blankly at his journal but got no work done.

He eventually fell asleep, locked in the same rigid position against his desk.

Bill visited him in his dreams.

“What did I tell ya, kid? He was gonna leave you, one way or another.” He shakes off the triangle’s arm around his shoulder and walks through his mindscape.

“What’s wrong? This is what you wanted, right? That oaf was smothering your flame. He held you back in your home town, and he would have continued to hold you back unless you got rid of him. Now we can continue with our plans.” Bill tries again.

Stanford slowly nodded. He didn’t have many others he could trust, much less people who appreciated him, and now Bill was one of the top two. It was easy to put your faith in something all seeing, something that was stronger than you. There was no way Bill could lead him astray now. But he couldn’t help but wonder: had he made the right decision?

Bill, exasperated when he found no other response but nods form the scientist, left the man to wonder his own dreamscape. The demon casting one final glance at the scientist as he sat down at an empty swing set.

\--

Fiddleford feared sleep. He couldn’t imagine what nightmares would haunt him now that his one protection was gone. No one to rouse him from the dream, no one to hold him protectively, no one to kiss the spot right below his ear lobe and mutter sleepily, “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Everything was not going to be fine.

He rolled over and stared up at the empty ceiling.

“Bill?” His voice croaked in the darkness.                                                

“I want to make a deal.”

No response.

“Bring Stanley back. Please.”

No response.

Fiddleford laughed bitterly. The demon must be mocking him. He rolled back over, burying his face in a pillow that smelled too much like the night air and fear, and not nearly enough like Stanley Pines.

He didn't sleep that night. Nor the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, serious question that I would love, love, LOVE to hear feedback about. This fic is really growing in length, and an up coming chapter would be a good place to split it. And I, myself, am daunted when I see enormous fics, so I'm wondering whether I should split this into two parts. The whole thing is about 80k-100k and right about now is a perfect middle point. It will also be a POV shift and where a different arc appears, so it would make sense. But also, I would like to keep them together so that its all here in one place, you know? So should I split it up? Honestly I'm on both sides of the fence, so let me know what you guys think.


	12. Time's up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and Stanford expreiment with the last stages of the portal before it is complete. Meanwhile, Stanley tries to adapt to being back on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back. Little bit of a wonky uploading scheduele here resently. Real life is really getting in the way of my time I have set aside for writting. So I will either be on short hiatus after this chapter, or the next. Sorry about that!
> 
> Lots of trigger warnings for this chapter: alcoholism, mentions of drugs, violence, one particularly bad scene involving a needle (its not very explicitly described, but I have a phobia of needles and it made me cringe to write it), and minor gore.

Stanford flipped off the coffee machine just in time to hear the soft patter of socked feet crossing the living room. Fiddleford had always walked very quietly, but this time he wasn’t going to sneak up on the scientist. Stanford turned, mug in hand, eyes alight with triumph-- only to flinch away at the engineer’s appearance.

Hair hung limply over his forehead, straying from its normal neat part. Was it just him, or had the engineer’s blond hair become duller in the recent weeks? Not to mention the sickly, gunmetal circles under his eyes, or the half-tucked collar sticking out over his pullover. His assistant had seen better days. It was odd that he hadn’t realized the man’s full transformation until now.

He swallowed the word, ‘Sorry’, before it could escape his mouth. He had nothing to apologize for. Maybe the engineer’s shift in attitude wasn’t because of the disappearance of his twin. Even so, Stanley had antagonized him, assaulted him even! Stanford was sure he had been right to get rid of the man, even Bill had agreed. It was logical.

But still, he forced himself to push down that tight feeling in his throat that arose whenever he wondered where Stanley was now. No, he didn’t feel bad. How could he possibly feel bad for someone who had ruined his chances once, and then almost succeeded in doing so a second time.

Stanford carefully slipped the coffee cup into his still waking assistant’s open palm. Fiddleford’s bleary eyes blinked at the mug for a moment before registering what it was, and downing the whole thing in one gulp.

The scientist laughed it off awkwardly, brow furrowing as he poured the engineer a second cup. The toaster dinged; Stanford took the cue to excuse himself from the situation as quickly as possible. He grabbed the slightly burned toast, wondering how on Earth he could make his friend happy again.

“Oh!” He exclaimed suddenly getting an idea. He set the toast onto a plate and sliding it his assistant’s way. Fiddleford frowned at the food, and then at the scientist.

“Today is the day we can finally start trial runs on the portal with dummies! We can finally turn it on, open it up, and send something into an unknown dimension. I’ll even let you pull the lever.”

Much to the scientist’s delight, Fiddleford did perk up a bit at that. He hadn’t seen the engineer smile in a long time, but he thought he saw the tiniest hint of the corners of his mouth tugging up. Stanford gave an approving nod as he stood, taking his coffee with him.

“But, you have to eat the toast, and all of it. Don’t just push it aside.”

Fiddleford scrunched up his face, shooting Stanford a disgusted look.

The scientist grinned, turning and making his way for the lab. Perhaps his friend was finally taking steps, albeit small, to reverting back to his old self. _See?_ He reassured himself. _We don’t need Stanley to keep us happy after all._

\--

The dealer raised an eyebrow at him as he flipped his cards right side up, sliding another two chips forward. Doubling down on a 17 was a risky decision, but Stanley Pines needed those high odds. The dealer slid him a third card: a three. Hell, it wasn’t 21, but it still beat out the dealer’s hand of 19.

The boxer was much better at dice rolling, but he had taken a recent fancy to blackjack, especially since he had learned to count cards. Getting caught with loaded dice was too easy; counting was much more reliable.

 The girl with the drink trays giggled, passing another round to the players accompanying him. She smiled at the boxer, red lipstick accentuating her perfect teeth. The woman winked.  Stanley smiled back. He knew the type.

They would go out drinking, hell, if he was lucky, maybe she would even pay. They’d walk back to his ratty hotel room, the same old thing. He wouldn’t mind waking up with someone to hold, even if it meant nothing to either of them. It’d be better than waking up cold and alone. But he didn’t quite have the stomach for that sort of thing now.

The boxer averted his gaze, smile dropping. He didn’t want to think about the man he had left behind, or that desperately clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, urging the boxer to return back. There was no place for him to return to. Not anymore.

The man squinted his eyes at Stanley from across the table, giving and taking the other’s chips before slowly, carefully sliding him the winnings. _Fuck,_ he thought, pocketing the chips and slipping from his stool at the table. _He knew_. He knew he was counting cards. The boxer had never quite broken the habit of tapping his fingers against his thigh to add in elementary school. And casinos didn’t take too fondly of cheaters. He’d be lucky if he got away with all of his fingers intact.

He made his way through the crowd, hoping he was gone fast enough to shake the dealer’s line of sight, or before the man could call security and point them his direction. The boxer’s eyes caught the ‘employee only’ sign above a tan door. He gave one last look around before pushing through and following the grime covered staircase, not nearly as pristine as the inside. Stanley pushed past the second door and out into the parking lot.

 _Sweet Moses, is it night already?_ He glanced out into the dark, forcing his eyes to adjust from the bright casino lights.

He leaned against the brick wall, pulling a lighter from his pocket as he stared at the sky. The one thing he disliked about Vegas was the sky. Too much smog, not nearly enough stars. The night sky had been something he had grown extremely fond of out in Oregon. Now it looked much too tainted.

The boxer slid a hand through his greasy hair, much longer than it used to be, nearly reaching past his shoulder blades. He grabbed a box from his jacket, fingers finding the small cylinders inside with ease. He rolled the cigarette absentmindedly between two fingers before placing it between his lips. The boxer’s thumb slid over the ridged wheel, fire dancing from the lighter and lighting the cigarette. He sighed. Smoking wasn’t much his habit as much as Ford’s (with the exception being high school), but he had picked it up in the absence of his brother.

Stanley shoved his cold hands in his jacket pocket, feeling the loose chips. He’d have to cash them in tomorrow, or convince some sap to do it for him. Then he’d have at least 60 bucks to his name, and could pay a bit forward in advance for his room. Maybe he would tuck the rest of it away, saving it up for emergency money and--oh, who was he kidding--he was going to spend it on booze. Lots and lots of booze. The sour liquid had become his most trusted companion. It helped him forget, numbed him, and that was all that mattered.

He fumbled for his keys, exhaling smoke through his nose. The boxer’s feet clapped alone against the damp pavement, the only other sounds were distant parties and car alarms. A streetlamp came to life as he passed under, illuminating his car.

And the person sitting on the hood.

Stanley froze, gripping the keys tightly.

“Scram.” He growled, keys sliding in between his fingers as makeshift brass knuckles. “If you’re here to rob me, I’m gonna tell ya now that you won’t be gettin’ much.”

“Stan. You didn’t tell me you were back in town.”

The boxer gulped, taking a step backwards. He knew that Columbian accent. And as the man tilted his head up, he could make out the familiar face: the thin chin, sharp neckline, narrow mustache.

“Rico.” Stanley’s voice shook, gripping the keys tighter, “Long time, no see.” He laughed nervously.

“Can it, Pines.” Rico straightened up, slipping off of the Stanleymobile, the hood shuddering at the absence of weight. The man bounced on his heels, rolling his neck with a sickening pop before cracking his knuckles.

“You’ve got some debts that need repaying.”

\--

“This is Stanford Pines, the lead scientist of the research team in Gravity Falls, and I am here today with my assistant... Say your name into the recorder, Doc.”

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket,”

“And today, November 12th, we are going to begin performing trial runs on the portal!” Stanford placed the tape recorder on his desk, flashing his assistant an excited smile. Fiddleford forced a strained smile at his friend, gaze dropping to his feet.

Today was the day.

He should be excited. Some part of him was, but it felt duller, fainter than it should be. Almost four years of hard work and the portal was finally complete; and he still could hardly register the quickening of his heart.

Stanford’s six fingers hammered away on the small, personal computer, something of Fiddleford’s own design, checking the status, entering coordinates, recalibrating anything that needed to be double checked one last time. The scientist stepped back, giving an ‘OK’ signal to his assistant. Fiddleford nodded, sliding down switches slowly, the hum of the portal buzzing off the small chamber’s walls. Lights flashed on, symbols picking up speed and mixing in a flurry of color.

The two stood back, coming out from behind the safely glass to admire their creation. The engineer’s hair whipped about his face as he gazed up in awe. Stanford cracked a smile, noticing his assistant couldn’t help but smile too at their achievement. So much had led up to this, and they were finally here. New worlds to discover, reasons behind the anomalies. And he, Stanford Pines, with the addition of his assistant, was the first person in the world to do it.

He clasped his hands together, suddenly feeling over his pockets for something absent. Fiddleford quirked an eyebrow, his lab coat fluttering in the gust.

“Of course. I leave my journal upstairs the one day I need to write down test results.”

He turned.

“Doc, you stay here and make sure nothing goes haywire. The rift will remain closed if you don’t touch anything, so don’t pull the switch just yet. I’ll be right back.”

Stanford dashed past him and up the stairs without another word. The scientist was gone within seconds, leaving Fiddleford alone in the cold basement.

He locked eyes with the machine, the inner circle slowly gaining speed. The hum sounded foreboding now, without the watchful eyes of his partner. Fiddleford shivered, hands locking in hands as he wrung them.

After a moment, he fled back behind the safety glass, taking a seat in his chair. He sighed, scorning himself for being so on edge. _Now would be a good time for going over notes, not for panicking,_ he thought.He clicked a pen, opening up his own lab book.

He glanced up at the portal, doing a double take when he realized it wasn’t its usual swirling colors.

No, the machine looked very grey. In fact, he glanced quickly around the room, everything seemed awfully, familiarly grey.

“Oh no.” He muttered, standing from his seat.

“Oh yes!”

With a flash of light, a triangle formed above his head, growing a singular eye and limbs before popping out in his full form.

“You!” Fiddleford hissed, rounding on the demon. He had been absolutely petrified of this encounter for months, but now that it was happening, he only felt seething anger.

“You ignored me.” The engineer clenched his hands into fists. “I asked to make a deal. I wanted Stan back, and you _ignored_ me.”

“Woah now, is that really the best way to greet me? Let’s not get too arrogant. Unless you’ve forgotten how much power I have over people.” The triangle reached forward, and in one quick motion, snapped the engineer’s neck. Fiddleford screamed, clutching at his twisted neck, feeling bones in places bones certainly shouldn’t be, before Bill’s hands descended upon him again and snapped his head back into place.

“Relax, kid!” Bill called as Fiddleford took a shaky breath. “We’re in the mind. I can hurt you as much as you want here and you will still wake up passed out on that control panel! Don’t forget: I practically _own_ you.” The demon’s voice dipped down, eye flashing red in warning as he encircled the man. Fiddleford flinched, drawing his arms close and hunching over. Bill had made it very clear: he was weak, useless against someone with as much power as the demon. Plus, he was under the triangle’s control. He had to do anything the demon commended.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Fiddleford asked quietly, voice whimpering as the demon’s cane paused midair.

“Can’t have two deals from the same person at the same time. There’s a chance you might off yourself and then I’d be in deep trouble. Rules are rules, kid.”

“And speaking of **rules** ,” Bill grew suddenly larger, halting in front of the engineer’s face, “You have promises to keep.”

“Please,” The cracked plea was out of Fiddleford mouth before he could process he was begging. “Don’t--”

“Don’t what? You knew the risks you were taking when you made a deal, didn’t you? It would be foolish of you to make a demon deal without knowing what the future holds. Even if it meant saving your friends. But you are _quite_ the fool, McGucket. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to perform some heinous crime or take your soul. I just need you to punch in a couple of numbers into that computer of yours.”

“W-Why?”

“ **You don’t get to ask questions**.” Bill boomed resuming his slow drift through the room.

Fiddleford fell back against his desk. Pain sparked through his back as his spine hit the corner. A coffee cup shattered against the ground. His heart hammered against his ribcage, wide eyes focused on the malevolent triangle floating inches in front of him. He swallowed thickly, realizing just how dry his throat was. Bill Cipher could end his life. He could ruin everything they had ever worked for. Bill could torture the engineer with the likes of things he had only seen in his nightmares. And he would give anything not to relive those.

Bill sighed, taking off his top hat and brushing it off. He glowered at the trembling form below him.

“You know what, kid? I like you. I think you got more sense than all of the knuckleheaded Pines put together. So I’ll go into detail, just for you.” The demon folded his hands behind his back, the midsection under his bowtie growing into a small screen-like surface. It turned on, engulfing the dark room in a white flash of light before changing into an image Fiddleford knew well: the computer.

“You’re going to go to your computer and change the coordinates before the portal opens. In a way, it’ll speed up your research. Technically, I’m helping you accomplish your goals. But really, I just want to see what’s going to happen and don’t have the patience to wait another 100,000 years.”

“You just… want me to edit our calculations a bit? No ‘steal my soul’ scenario?” Fiddleford straightened his glasses, standing away from the desk. The screen showed the engineer typing in a short code repeatedly, the numbers burning into his retinas.

“Yeesh, what kind of a demon do you take me for? I’m only interested in bridging the gap and helping you and Sixer achieve ultimate knowledge.”

“Well, it’s not like I have much of a choice.”

“Exactly! So hop to it. Or I really _will_ make your life **a living hell**.” Images flashed before the screen: the Shack on fire, faces twisted in agony, eyes being ripped out of sockets, endless screaming, blood, so much blood. Bill cackled, his cane smacking the side of Fiddleford’s head. His eyes shut as his felt the short impact. When he blinked them open again, the world was in color.

 _“I’ll be watching…”_ Echoed Bill’s voice.

Fiddleford rubbed his eyes as the light from the portal became near blinding once more. He breathed a shaky sigh, a hand clutched over his heart as he glance around the room. Bill Cipher was gone; but he would always be watching.

The engineer ambled towards the computer, legs feeling weak with every step. He remembered the code; a few numbers were easy to memorize, especially at these stakes. His hands hovered over the keyboard.

He paused, biting his lip.

 _A few numbers won’t change anything, right? Just the location…The portal isn’t even open, so it’s not like it could tear a hole in the fabric of the universe_.

He hit the first key. And then the next. Soon he had typed the entire code. He stepped back, looking from the hastily changed computer to the spinning wheel. The portal continued to whirl.

“Sorry it took so long!”

Fiddleford practically jumped out of his skin at the scientist’s return. Stanford halted, raising an eyebrow at the engineer. Fiddleford smiled, the grin stretching uncomfortably wide across his face.

“You wouldn’t believe where this thing was.” Stanford said slowly, losing steam as he stared questioningly at his assistant. When the engineer offered no explanation, he simply shrugged and turned to the portal. The scientist beamed up at the portal, eyes wide and proud behind his spectacles.

“Amazing, isn’t it? We’ve come so far…” Stanford sighed contentedly, hands placed triumphantly on his hips. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the other man. “I think everything is in order, just flip the switch when you’re ready, Doc.”

Fiddleford gulped, hand ghosting over the lever. He couldn’t go back after this; not on the demon deal, not on their years of work…

He was the one bringing worlds together.

The engineer’s finger’s tightened around the grey handle. Stanford was looking at him expectantly, but he could also feel the eyes of Bill Cipher locked onto him. He held his breath. There was no turning back.

Fiddleford pulled the switch.

The ground rumbled beneath their feet. Stanford fell forward, hitting the concrete before steadying himself and gazing at the machine. Fiddleford clutched onto the control panel, pressing his feet firmly onto the ground.

A flash of bright light consumed the Shack, Fiddleford narrowly pressing his face into the crook of his arm in time to shield his eyes. The ground quaked again. With one less hand steadying himself, Fiddleford faltered.

But he never hit the ground.

Instead, as the engineer opened his eyes, the room bathed in blue light, he found himself hovering inches off the ground.

Gravity anomalies.

Stanford had warned him there might be such things when they tested the portal, but seeing it in action, rather than on paper, was completely different. He reached out tentatively, pressing a finger against the ground. The small force was just enough to send him lazily upwards, centimeter by centimeter. He laughed despite himself; the only other people to experience this feeling were astronauts, and here they were living it first hand on Earth.

And suddenly, gravity affected the room again; the two fell face first onto the floor.

After he had pushed himself up, and checked his glasses for cracks, Fiddleford turned back to Stanford, a new found excitement rushing through his veins. The portal stood before them, fully functional, pulsing with cerulean light.

“I’ll go get the dummy!”

\--

The hand gripped Stanley’s skull, smashing his face once again into the hood of the car. Fingers slipped through his hair, reminding him of a much more _enjoyable_ time, as the man’s hold finally loosened. The boxer flung his elbow back, hearing that shock of breath leave Rico’s throat before the Columbian stumbled backwards.

Stan pushed himself up from the blood smeared hood. He turned. Rico was still recovering, hunched over a good few feet away. The boxer spat out a tooth. Stanley brought his shirt sleeve across his lips, wiping of the blood that had dripped from his damaged nose. He touched the sensitive bridge and winced. _Yep, definitely broken._

 _And now,_ he thought bitterly, _I don’t even have someone to patch it up properly._

Rico didn’t have goons do this kind of work. Sure, he could send guys out to kill whoever they had been hired to off, or send guys to smuggle, but he attended more personal matters himself. With three years of working with the man, Stanley knew their old business would come back to haunt him, even if he did leave on good terms. Which he hadn’t. And now Rico had come after his ass himself. It was most certainly personal.

Feet hammered across the pavement. Stan spun just in time for Rico to catch him in the gut with a shoulder. The boxer was flung back against the car. Stan winced at the hands gripping his shoulders. He struggled against them, one of the Columbian's hands flying down for a moment to retrieve something shiny and sharp.

Stan gulped, eying the switchblade inches away from his throat. He tilted his head up, trying to gain distance between his vulnerability and the weapon.

His eyes locked on Rico's bulging, crazed one. He was prepared to kill. Rico reared back, losing his edge as he moved away to gain momentum. He brought the knife back down, the boxer having just enough time to block his face with a forearm. The switchblade bit into his skin, cutting a deep, narrow gash to the end of his elbow. Rico's arm hit the end of its arch, hanging awkwardly to one side. He hadn't expected the boxer to be quick enough to escape with his life. Stan grit his teeth, forcing himself through the sharp pain as he snatched Rico's wrist and twisted.

The Columbian screeched, more from anger than pain. The blade clattered to the ground. Rico snatched at it, pulling both of the men down in his hasty scrabble.

The boxer’s shoulder hit the ground first, then his head. He clawed at his arm, slick blood coating his fingers. Rico crawled, hands scrambling against the pavement for the blade. Stanley grabbed the back of his shirt collar and tugged him back. The man made a short, gurgling nose before being jerked back and pinned to the ground, Stan’s knees pressed against his shoulders.

“Why couldn’t you just stay away?” Stan cried, fists curled around the Columbian’s throat just loose enough to get a response, but just tight enough to be a threat. “Why do you always have to come back and find me?”

“After that last hit where you scrammed with my cash? Do you know how much that set me back? How much you owe me? How God damn long I got put in the big house? You screwed me over, Pines!”

“There was no other way out of the business! It was either run or be killed by you.”

“Well, looks like running didn’t do you much good.”

Stan heard the scratching of nails on concrete. Rico was reaching for his blade--

He had had enough.

Stanley socked the man in the temple. Rico’s head lolled to the side before his eyes rolled back into his head. The hand fell limp.

The boxer straightened above the Columbian, trying to slow his rapid breaths. He ran a hand over his face, shutting his eyes tightly as he pushed his hair, wet with sweat, out of his eyes.

Rico wasn’t dead.

Stan’s eyes fell on the knife.

He could easily do it. No one was around in a parking lot at this time of night, especially in a sketchy place like this. He could be through with this problem; maybe his old ‘co-workers’ would stop coming back to haunt him if he showed them he meant business. He could be safe, maybe even take back his old name. He wouldn’t have to worry about being alone and defenseless, found by the people hunting him and slaughtered in the night.

They knew he was back in town. Maybe he could escape with his life. All he had to do was take the knife.

He eased the switchblade out of Rico’s palm. Stanley pushed it towards the man’s throat, stopping short before piercing the flesh.

Stan paused.

His hands shook.

He faltered.

With a huff of frustration, he folded the knife and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Stanley left Rico there, climbing into his car and leaving the parking lot as fast as he could. He turned past his usual exit, the one leading to the cheap motel he stayed at, and headed down the freeway out of town.

He drove passed a bar, foot easing off the gas pedal as he eyed it. _No,_ he thought, pushing his foot back down.

First he needed to fix up his arm.

\---

It had all gone wrong so quickly.

They had secured the dummy, Fiddleford anchoring it to their dimension with rope while Stanford tossed it. It hadn’t taken much, even if the dummy was heavy, the effects of gravity became lesser so around the portal, so it wasn’t exactly hard to get in the air. The only problem was how to get it down.

Especially after Fiddleford’s foot had gotten caught up in the rope, and he had felt himself being pulled, weightless and immobile, through the air.

In his last moments, his eyes locked on his colleague, looking for any sign of help. He could have sworn he saw a triangular shadow fall over the man, even as he reached out to the engineer, snatching up the rope.

Bill had tricked him once again

He screamed.

\--

Stanley held back a curse as he shoved the needle back through his skin, tears squeezing out of his eyes as the thin thread pulled through. He bit down on the washcloth in his mouth, forcing his hands to steady themselves. He clumsily reached for the bottle of whiskey, taking a quick swig, before gingerly pouring it over his arm.

At the sting akin to fire running through his veins, a groan of pain managed to slip past the rag in his mouth. He took a deep breath, setting the bottle back down on the sink counter. He had heard to use alcohol only when he had nothing else to clean wounds with, and he certainly wasn’t going to go out and spend six dollars of his winnings on a bottle of peroxide. He could use that money for food. Whiskey would have to do, even if it wasn’t the safest option.

He exhaled slowly, counting down in his head. He slid the needle through again. The laceration certainly didn’t hurt as much as last time; maybe the alcohol was finally numbing the pain.

God, he wished Fiddleford was here to do this. To guide him through what to do so he wouldn’t bleed out from this deep of a cut that may have even hit a major artery. Or at least the engineer would knock some sense into him and drive him to the hospital. His teeth found the washcloth again as he pulled the string through.

\--

Crossing dimensions was similar to the feeling of having a bucket of ice water dumped on you after a warm shower: it was a shock.

And there was that one second, that _awful singular moment_ of being in between, being in and out and scattered across time, having the dark vacuum overcome you and suck the air out of your lungs.

He couldn’t move his arms or legs, or even his body for that matter. If fact, they felt entirely separate. His squeezed shut eyes fell open, eyeing the portal that stopped short at his neck.

And then his pupils fell on something entirely different.

\--

Alcohol, Stanley had decided, was the perfect solution to his problems. The stitches on his arm seemed to agree, the ache becoming duller with ever sip. It made him just desensitized enough to forget about that dull, thumping pain he felt in his chest whenever he thought about--

No. Not tonight. He wasn’t going to think. Stanley Pines was determined to get so shitfaced that he would forget who he was as a person. Maybe then he would be able to sleep at night.

But he knew, even as he flopped down into the stained motel chair, that his thoughts would continue to plague him.

He wondered…

\--

Fiddleford’s breath came in rapid and shallow, lips trembling as he tried to still his constricted chest.

The thing’s long, grotesque fingers crept slowly up the underside of his neck. The engineer watched helplessly as its clammy palm came to rest along his jaw, its wet, wrinkled flesh searching among Fiddleford’s skin. The vile things snaked into his hair, skimming along the tops of his ear. He panicked, sucking in a breath too loudly, too shakily, letting the smallest hint of a whimper grace his vocal chords.

The curled nails clamped down.

\--

Where was Fidds right now?

Stanley sighed, leaning his head back against the chair.

\--

It had no eyes, just empty pits staring down into his own, horrified, blue one. It must have been going by touch and hearing alone. The gaunt face leaned closer. Fiddleford could feel its warm, ragged breathing against his ear.

\--

Surely better off than him. The boxer ran a hand through his long bangs, nodding to himself in reassurance.

If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that Fiddleford was safe. The man may not have been the toughest, but he always had his head about him. He knew when to get the hell out of places, or when to stay out from even the beginning.

He knew his brother was keeping a close eye on him, it was something unspoken between them.

He’d have to leave for Mexico soon. Who knew how much of the mob was on his tail after that last stunt. And here he was laying low in the heart of it. Stanley knew the only way he’d be safe was to get out and fast.

But that meant putting a much longer distance between him and Oregon. And what if his brother and Fiddleford did one day need his help, and tried to reach him?

The whole situation made him feel very uneasy.

\--

It held him fast, even when Fiddleford tried to squirm away. His eyes shot to the corner of his vision, painfully straining to see without moving. He saw its mouth open, a string of saliva dangling from its cracked lips.

Its voice was hoarse, as if it hadn’t spoken in a thousand years. Maybe it hadn’t.

It began to whisper.

\--

Stanley pulled his knees to his chest, not bothering to move in his sedated state for a blanket.

Too many ‘what ifs’, not nearly enough closure.

He vaguely wondered if he and Fiddleford had even ‘broken up’. He had just leapt into the night, in a hurry to run from whatever emotions he would get swept up in eventually, if he prolonged his stay.

Stanley wondered if he would ever see the engineer again.

\--

Back in the portal room, Stanford Pines was beginning to wonder the same thing. His partner had been in the portal all of 30 seconds, and yet it felt like an eternity. In such a short amount of time, he had been swept out of his security, unsure if the man on the other side of the portal was even alive.

He grabbed the rope and tugged harder. The engineer gave way a little, but his head was still trapped beyond this world. Stanford couldn’t turn off the portal; they had never tested to see if it would sever anything on either side.

The scientist pulled back with all of his weight, leaning back as far as he could, until only the tips of his heels pressed against the ground.

Fiddleford was released with squelching noise, screaming as he fell back down, out of reach of the unstable gravity. Stanford toppled backwards too as the dummy hit him in the face. The three laid sprawled out on the floor.

The scientist rubbed his head, finding the spot that had struck the concrete, before pulling himself upright.

The engineer laid unmoving on the ground.

“No, no, no, no, no… Doc… Fiddleford! Are you okay? Is it working? What did you see?” He crawled to his assistant’s side. When the man remained still and silent, Stanford grabbed his arm. Fiddleford’s hand flopped limp as the scientist moved down, pausing at the engineer’s wrist.

The pulse was fast, _incredibly fast_ , and much too faint.  

Stanford moved up from the man’s slack hands to his arms. Fiddleford’s eyes shot open, as if the touch had burned him. The scientist reeled away.

The engineer convulsed, twitching on the ground as his cloudy, dilated pupils stared at something unseen. His mouth moved quickly, gibberish spilling from his tongue. It was certainly unlike Stanford had even heard before.

Fiddleford rocketed up, sitting straight as his chest heaved for oxygen. Slowly, much too slowly, he turned to face the scientist. His eyes blinked at different intervals.

And then he spoke in a language Stanford _did_ understand.

\--

Bill Cipher longed midair as the scene unfolded as he knew it would happen, as he had guided it to happen. All the details fixed to a T. The annoying brother was out of the way, Fiddleford would soon follow; it was amusing to watch people crumble one after the other like dominos. And then Stanford would topple as well, leaving him with all the necessary means to achieve his goal. 

He had been hoping for a vessel, but that hadn’t worked out too well. The other demons hadn’t pulled and consumed the engineer’s soul as he thought they might, simply toyed with his mind; one quick leap into McGucket’s body and then he was being shoved out. But not before he had taken a quick peek at the man’s brain. Geez, that place was in shambles.  

His threat was clear now: he was going to cause chaos, the like’s humanity has never seen before, and it was all because these three were too easily manipulated. Especially Sixer. Boy, all he had to do was throw out some flowery words and he held the freak in the palm of his hands.

 _Speaking of manipulation_ , he thought as he watched Fiddleford spill out prophecies, looks like his friends really had taken a toll on the engineer. Perfect.

_“When Gravity falls, and earth becomes sky_

_Fear the beast with just one eye.”_

Ah, it was like music to his nonexistent ears.

All he had to do now, was wait.

\--

“We have to destroy it.”

“What?! You- You can’t be serious.”

“I fear…” Fiddleford gulped, his mind in upheaval, trying to grasp at any sort of thought was a struggle, “I fear we have unleashed something horrible upon humanity. This machine is dangerous.”

“Fiddleford, what are you saying?” Stanford pulled back, eyeing the smaller man carefully.

The engineer tucked his legs under himself, gazing at his clenched palms. He spoke very quietly.

“We have to destroy it.”

Fiddleford watched as the scientist’s demeanor changed, brows furrowing down, mouth pulled in a tight frown. He was no longer worried for his friend, rather, he was concerned for his creation.

“This is my life’s work! I can’t just get rid of it. We spent so many years building it, you can’t possibly believe--”

“If we don’t do something it will destroy us all!” Fiddleford yelled, sharp and curt, clutching at his hair as if he were about to yank it out.

Stanford looked down, avoiding eye contact with his wheezing assistant. In his quest for knowledge, had he really--? _No._ He shook his head. _I won’t believe it_. A small smile worked its way back onto his lips.

“Doc, you don’t know what you’re saying. Your mind is probably reeling from what you’ve seen. You just need to calm down, and think through this clearly.” Stanford reached out a hand to the engineer. Fiddleford flinched away, glancing over his shoulder and giving the man he had called ‘friend’ a once over before shooting him glare.

This wasn’t Stanford Pines. It couldn’t be.

Stanford Pines at least cared for his friends to an extent, listened to what his colleagues had to say, even if he did think he knew better. Stanford Pines was egoistical, but not like this. With that tone of voice, he spoke like Fiddleford was beneath him. The engineer knew, that in his capacity for intellect, the scientist should have realized how dangerous this whole contraption had been. Someone else had been pulling the reigns, controlling them like puppets and blocking them from the truth. Could they really control the portal, or had they been bound to release horrors this entire time?

“Where have you been getting these ideas from?” Fiddleford yelled, his scared eyes cautiously watching the man in front of him. “This isn’t like you to be so--”

Fiddleford covered his mouth with a hand in realization.

The engineer didn’t want to believe it. But maybe, he too had been blind to some changes in his friend. This was no longer the work of Stanford Pines.

This was the work of Bill Cipher.

Fiddleford slowly crept back, carefully pulling himself away from his colleague. All this time, he had pegged Stanley for the lying twin, the one keeping secrets. But they had all had burdens to bear. He felt bile rise in his throat as a sense of betrayal crawled into his veins, making his blood run cold. Heat prickled the corners of his eyes.

“Fiddl--”

“You’re a monster.”

Stanford’s shoulders slumped, brow furrowing in disbelief at the engineer.  Fiddleford met his eyes.

“I can’t make you destroy it. I know that. But I no longer wish to be part of this.”

The scientist watched, as Fiddleford stood and made his way to the exit.

“I quit.”

“Fine!” Stanford shouted after him, regaining his footing, “I’ll finish without you. I don’t know why I ever needed you in the first place.”

The engineer said nothing, only briefly paused at the door to steady his breathing. He pushed the elevator call button with a thumb, feeling eyes, and not just Stanford’s on the back of his skull. His head pounded dully. He knew too much, far too much for a human to ever know. He had had the secrets of the universe, prophecies, whispers of what is to come, what has happened in the past, all flooded into his skull. Not to mention what he had _seen._ It hurt to think anything. The engineer felt like his mind might explode at any moment.

In the chaos, one clear thought surfaced.

Perhaps he could fix himself.

The elevator clunked down into place.

Fiddleford climbed in, but not before running back to his former desk.

His shaking palms found the memory gun.

Too much had happened. Stanley leaving, Bill's horrors, him being one of the main causes for the fall of the universe...

Maybe he could make some use of his last project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have decided to leave this fic as one huge ordeal. Thanks for all the feedback I got! This thing will probably stretch 18-19 chapters when I'm through, now that I have narrowed it down a bit more. So we still have a ways to go. 
> 
> Leave a comment (my absolute favorites are the ones that say things like 'WHY HOW COUKD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!') and kudos if you enjoyed, and I will try to update soon! Thank you.


	13. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley comes back to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter is kind of short, it's mostly some quick background and set up. There's a major time skip between this and the last chapter; you'll see that for yourself.
> 
> A while back I mentioned a major POV change, and this is it. I'm mainly focusing from Stanley's persepective.
> 
> Trigger warnings: alcoholism, suicidal thoughts

Stanley Pines had always been fascinated with how such a small thing could have a profound impact.

Like how the wrong twitch of a muscle in a fit of anger had gotten him homeless at 18. How a fist full of cash from an unobservant cashier when he was at the lowest of the low had gotten him thrown in the slammer. How that had eventually escalated to smuggling products across the border, and then thrown in prison again, only this time in a different country. How, owing Rico money had gotten him thrown in a trunk, and almost executed on several occasions, one of them far more recent. How he was still on the run from them, high tailing it out of Nevada with ten bucks in his pocket.

How, even as he turned off his engine and stepped out into his brother’s driveway, he had known things would all go sour. Like they always had. How one moment you’re building a boat with your brother, and the next time he speaks to you he won’t even look you in the face unless it’s to shoot a glare.

Everything about Stanford was wrong. From the crossbow pointed in his face just for knocking at the door, to even the way his twin held himself, shoulders hunched forward, like he was constantly bracing himself for attack.

Fiddleford was gone. That had been a shock. The scientist told him the full story, all while shining a flash light in his brother’s eyes. Stanford had muttered something about the engineer still being in town, but that he hadn’t been looking for the ‘traitor’.

_“You’re telling me, he left all shaken up, and you didn’t bother to follow him or check in afterwards?!”_

_“Not… Exactly…”_

_“Tell me what happened. Now, Stanford.”_

_“He didn’t remember me. Wouldn’t remember you either if you went knocking on his apartment door.”_

_“What? Of course Fidds would remember me!”_

_“Stanley… He- He took the memory gun with him when he left. The one he was so excited to finish? Well, he completed it.”_

_“No… No, he wouldn’t.”_

_“He took that gun, put it up to his temple,”_

_“No--”_

_“He had the audacity to type in my name, type in your name, Stanley,”_

_“Stop--!”_

_“And he erased us. For good. There’s no going back. The Fiddleford we knew is gone. He took the easy way out, sponging all of those memories out of his head so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty, so he wouldn’t have to remember. Every last one of them, Stanley. You. Me. We don’t mean a thing to him anymore.”_

_“Shut up! He wouldn’t do that. Maybe he erased you, but he wouldn’t erase me. Not in a thousand years.”_

_The room had fallen silent._

_“Whatever. His door number is 204. You can go check for yourself once we’ve finished here.”_

Stanley was so furious, he thought he might actually break a couple of his brother’s teeth this time. But the scientist was already in a rough state: eyes darting across the cluttered home, if it could even be called that anymore. The place was a wreck, the ground floor almost unlivable; instead of a living room there were boxes upon boxes of lab equipment, a broken cage, a blackboard smeared in chalk, and a creature similar to a salamander that Stanley could only describe as a 'pink nightmare'. 

The boxer decided he would just have to go out and search for Fidds himself, as soon as he found out what Stanford needed him so desperately for.

As it turned out, the portal had been a humongous failure.

It was shut down, the room closed off by a series of sophisticated locks that Stanford had whipped up in his paranoia. Stan knew his brother was having the same troubles of ‘hiding out’ as soon as he had seen the boarded up windows. From what his twin was hiding from, he didn’t know, but at how scared the man had looked… He knew what being on the run was like, how the panic consumed a person, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Stanley was ready to set everything aside and go back to how things had been six months ago.

Until Stanford had given him a journal and told him to fuck off.

Well, that was paraphrasing. _But still._

To hell with Ford’s ego, Stanley had decided, he was going to burn the journal, the book that had costed them so much before. He flicked open his lighter, ready to put an end to it all, watch everything else go up in smoke and ashes until there was nothing left. That was, until Ford had tackled him.

Then, the boxer really had knocked out a few of his teeth.

And he was back to the butterfly effect. How that slug had set in motion the release of _years_ of pent up tension, and with no one to stop them, they had attacked each other. The twins jumped at each other’s throats; a chance to finally settle the ten year long dispute.

They scrambled for the journal, cursing and shoving; Ford managed to only possess the book for a moment and sprint across the lab before Stanley had caught him. He tried to wrangle the thing out of his twin’s hands as they fell through the door. Stanford kicked out, his foot finding purchase against his brother’s chest, sending him into hot machinery.

His skin was searing, blistering, burning. He could barely make out the scientist’s choked apologies over the horrible screech of unadulterated pain erupting from his mouth. It had burned through his only coat, and his ratty t-shirt, branding the skin below before he could manage to fall away.

It was just a twitch of a muscle, right? In a fit of anger? Stanford hadn’t meant to scar his brother.

But Stanley could hardly see through the rage engulfing him, edging him to give that sucker exactly what he deserved.

A left hook, something he had never thought he would have to use against family, and the scientist was stumbling back through the lab door, and falling against a switch. He regained his footing, looking at Stanley with wide eyes, six fingers clutching his journal to his chest.

_“Some brother you turned out to be. You care more about your dumb mysteries than you do about family? Well then you can have them.”_

When he pushed his brother, he didn’t expect him to fly back so far, and certainly not up, defying gravity as he drifted closer to a blue vortex Stan could only guess was the full power of the portal. He hadn’t even noticed it had gotten flipped on in the fight, but now all he could hear was the roar of its spinning motor in his ears, mingled in with Stanford’s desperate pleas for help.

He didn’t move, unsure of what to do other than shout, _“What do I do?”_ at his brother, the brains, the one who always had a plan, who always knew how to handle these things. But Stanford was long gone, and in a last ditch effort, only managed to throw his twin the journal, before being sucked into his own invention. His own intelligence had been his downfall.

The vortex vanished without a trace, without a sound, leaving only the cries of help echoing off the barren walls.

He was alone again.

Stanley stared blankly at the spot the portal had once been.

When he found the strength to pull himself back up on his weak legs, he rushed towards the inverted triangle, slamming his fists against the cold metal, shouting, kicking, screaming, anything to get his brother back.

When that didn’t work, he rushed to the journal. Surely it would have some method of emergency repairs.

Lo and behold, Stanley thanked whatever deity was listening, it contained one third of the instructions. It was just like Stanford to make things difficult, even his blue prints. He’d have to find wherever the other two books were, not to mention, the singular page he possessed had material far too complex for him to understand. The most he could do was car repairs, not fixing an interdimensional portal!

After hours of his brain trying to figure out exactly what to do, he needed rest. He climbed the stairs back to the first floor.

He didn’t sleep. Stanley found his old room, but in the months he had gone that overlapped with the months before Fiddleford had quit, the engineer must have taken residence there. He couldn’t live in the room with the smell of the man clinging to even the sheets; something sharp like metal and oil, coupled with softer tones of toothpaste and cooking. And coffee, lots and lots of coffee. It made him want to weep all over again (something he had only recently stopped doing after he left the portal room).

He took refuge in the old guest bedroom, on the long, angular couch. But even then, he couldn’t find peace. And when he couldn’t dream, he drove. It had become yet another bad habit he had picked back up.

And now, with his car parked so very close to one of the cliffs overlooking the town, all it would take was the slightest jerk of his foot, and all of it would end. It was tempting, no doubt, but no more so than in the way when one looks over a high building and gets the urge to throw themselves off the top. All he had ever done had ended in failure; if he couldn’t do anything right, and only left messes where he travelled, why continue at all?

And he wouldn’t even damage his car! He was in Ford’s (not as well cared for) Cortina, not the good ol’ Stanleymobile. He knew he was going out drinking, and if push came to shove and he had to sleep in a car instead of walking home, he wasn’t going to throw up in his pride and joy if he had an alternative.

Besides, who would even know he was gone? By all legal means, Stanley Pines had disappeared a long time ago. His parents certainly didn’t care. Ford, if he was even alive, probably wanted him dead. Fiddleford…

He swallowed thickly, taking his foot off the perilous pedal, balancing his bottle between his legs.

Stanford had claimed Fiddleford didn’t remember the scientist, but maybe the engineer had kept his fond memories of the other twin. Maybe there was still someone out in the world who gave a damn about him. The smallest bit of hope wormed its way into his chest. He tried to douse it.

Stanley buried his hands in his hands and let out a long, drone out groan of frustration, his palms muffling the noise.

Nah, Ford wouldn’t lie about something like that. Besides, Fiddleford obviously didn’t want anything to do with him anyways.

He couldn’t help but think--

_Heh, what would Fidds think if he saw me now?_

_Hell, what would Stanford think?_

His brother would probably tell him he was being an idiot and physically drag him out of the car and put him under house arrest for good measure. But he knew, deep down, his brother would only be doing it for his safety, because he was too prideful to admit there was still a part of him, left over from their childhood, that hadn’t been wiped away when Stanley broke his machine, a part of him that worried for his twin.

Fiddleford, well, the engineer would probably yell at him for a bit alongside Stanford. But then he would break down and get mushy, probably make him promise something dumb like ‘if you start feeling like this again, come see me’.

And Stanley, the dope that he was, would go see him again.

And again.

He felt a twinge in his gut.

What the hell was he thinking?

Stanley Pines was _not_ a quitter.

 _No_ , he worked hard, harder than anyone. So what if he had been fruitless thus far? He hadn’t ever had the chance to prove himself. All the other times the odds were against him; they were all flukes. But now, he could show everyone he wasn’t just a useless idiot. He could get his brother back! He'd _have_ to get his brother back, and he'd be no use to Stanford dead. Sure the technology was advanced, but maybe he could convince Fiddleford to come back too. Even if the man had blasted his memories away, maybe they could recover them, or at least gain back enough knowledge to fix the portal together.

Maybe, for once, he could save them. He could be the hero.

And, with all the confidence only a drunk could have, he gathered his belongings and slid ungracefully out of the car. He took Rico’s knife and cut the brakes, slowly pushing the back of the car until it was leaning over the cliff side.

The boxer threw his I.D, his old one, the one before he even left Jersey, into the driver’s seat. He gave the back lights one final kick, watching with determination as the car toppled before him, and disappeared over the side.

A metallic crunch signaled his victory. He turned around, a triumphant grin spreading across his lips.

Stanley Pines was dead.

He took a sip of his drink before smashing the bottle against the ground.

It was the dawn of a new beginning.

_Now, to go get Fiddleford._

\--

In hindsight, maybe he should have driven his car back home before he faked his death by pushing it over a cliff. It was January, and Oregon was frozen over in a thin sheet of ice, and a full blanket of snow. His numb feet crunched in the snow as he wobbled through town. He was the only one outside, he noted as he passed a bar looking particularly warm and comfy; even the stray dogs had found places to snuggle up.

But Gravity Falls only had one apartment complex, and he was more than half way there. So, feeling a bit more sober from the cold, long walk, he decided to continue trudging along.

He found the complex easy enough; it was on the other side of town, the building stacked up like building blocks. Only a few lights lit up the windows. Stanley looked down at his watch: 11:00. _Well,_ he thought, _at least Fiddleford doesn’t sleep until late at night._

He stopped to do a small dance in celebration when he spotted the engineer’s _(ex-engineer’s?)_ truck among the cars in the parking lot.

 So Fiddleford was here. Now all he had to do was find the door. _What was it Ford had said? 203? 204?_ He was still feeling a little fuzzy.

Good thing for him he was brash enough and unafraid to go knocking until he found the right place.

Stanley walked up the zig-zagged stair case to the second floor and paused to look down row of doors. There were only two with the lights still on. His feet dragged him to the first one, pausing to look down at the “Welcome!” doormat. A sideways glance told him no other apartments had doormats.

Yep, this was definitely Fiddleford.

The boxer knocked without thinking. He immediately regretted it, pulling his hands away from the door as if the action had stung.

What was he going to say?

 _Hey, sorry I haven’t seen you in five months, but I may or may not have murdered my brother and I need your help. Also I’m in love with you still, so there’s that._ He bit back a groan. It was an idiotic decision from the start, not to mention _creepy_. Coming to an apartment complex to a door he wasn’t supposed to know about in the dead of night? He wanted to punch himself in the face. Stanley nervously ran his fingers through his hair--

Oh shit, _his hair._ It was much too long, and all over the place. He quickly tried to pat it down, but to no avail. He was a mess entirely, from his torn and stained jacket, to his ratty t-shirt, he looked horrible. This whole plan, he had decided, was awful. He stepped away from the door. He should leave, he thought, come back in the morning, when he looked presentable and actually knew what he was going to _tell him_ and--

All the air left Stanley’s lungs as the door swung open.

Fiddleford blinked up at him, one hand still on the door.

Stanley was frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth ajar as he took in the engineer. The five months that spanned between their absences weighed heavily on the boxer.

“… Hello?” Fiddleford muttered, his head slightly tilting to the side as he asked the question. The boxer jumped at the sound of the smaller man’s voice.

“Fiddleford…” He wanted to clamp his hands over his mouth as soon as the words had passed his lips. The man looked taken aback.

Stanley tried again, “Uh, h-hey.”

_Hey? All you can think to say is ‘hey’?! Get your act together, man!_

He cleared his throat, suddenly realizing how dry it had gone.

“Do I, um, do I know you?” Fiddleford asked, obviously perplexed.

Stanley’s shoulder’s slumped, forehead creasing as his eyebrows furrowed. Every word was like a tack jammed into his heart. So Fiddleford really had done it. He took a step back, sucking in a sharp breath to regain his composure. He was Stanley Pines, liar extraordinaire. He could make himself look normal for a second so he could calmly explain the situation to the engineer without freaking him out. The boxer clenched his fists in the pockets of his coat.

“Are you okay?” The engineer’s quiet voice cut through his muddled brain. Shit, the trembling must have given it away.

“Hmm? Yeah, oh, uh, I’m fine. Just a little cold is all, heh.” He scratched the back of his head, wincing at this jumble of words before stumbling onto the next sentence. “Technically, I guess you don’t know me. But I know you.”

Fiddleford’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the door growing tighter. Stanley panicked.

“No, wait, I didn’t mean that in a creepy way! I just- You went to school with my brother Stanford Pines? Do you remember that? Backupsmore? Out in Jersey? Um, I don’t know what you remember about the past few years, but it can’t be all that much and I--” He cleared his throat, watching as the engineer’s eyes grew wider with each word, “I think I might be able to- to help you."

The engineer took a step back. 

"Please. Just- Just hear me out. And then I'll go and you'll never have to hear from me again.”

Fiddleford looked petrified, eyes darting nervously from side to side. The engineer gave the man at his door a quick once over. He was scruffy, and a bit dirty, but he certainly didn’t _look_ like an ax murderer. Well, he looked strong enough to deal damage, but expression seemed authentic enough. At worst, he could be some homeless guy trying to get a place to sleep for the night.

Finally, the smaller one sighed.

“Why don’t you come inside, so we can discuss this before the neighbors think I’m _insane?_ ”

Stanley nodded dumbly as Fiddleford turned, leaving the door open for the other man. The boxer shut it quietly behind him, head craning around to observe the living room. The whole scheme seemed to be dull colors: a mustard couch, a baby-food green lamp, soft, tan carpeting.

The boxer turned the corner, following the soft rustling sounds he knew were Fiddleford’s socks across the floor; he found himself in the kitchen. He smiled to himself; no matter how much the engineer changed, he still hated wearing shoes.

Fiddleford placed a glass of water in front of the other man before sitting down across the table with his own mug. Stanley took a sip, trying to get the taste of stale booze off his tongue. When he looked up, the engineer was watching him closely, his expression serious.

“How do you know my name?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Stanley replied, dodging the question and stalling for time. How was he even going to explain this without being kicked out of the engineer’s house?

“The townspeople call me Dr. McGucket, not by my first name.” Fiddleford folded his hands on top of the table. “You show up at my doorstep at night, and you know who I am, but I can’t seem to recall you.”

“Listen, Fidds,” The man blinked at the name, “even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Well, we won’t know until we try.” Fiddleford offered after a beat of quietness.

Stanley took a deep breath.

“You and I were great-,” He cleared his throat, deciding not to tell the whole truth yet, “friends. We went on all these amazing adventures together out in the northern forest. You came out there to help my brother work on weird science stuff, and you eventually got swept up in everything we did. And then when it got too much you erased your memory.”

Fiddleford took a long sip of his tea.

“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” Fiddleford flinched as the man’s face contorted into an expression of pain. The boxer bit his lip.

“But you don’t remember anything, right? You can't deny that part. These past few years are all a blur, right?”

Fiddleford froze. The silence grew deafening.

“What do you know about that?”

“Been having gaps, Fidds? Unexplained black outs, days, even months missing? Four years, seven months, fourteen days missing? Your mind been gettin’ fuzzy?” It was a good thing he actually listened when the engineer had rattled off possible side effects from his invention. The man had just been so excited, and it was rare Stanley got to see him like that.

But this Fiddleford was much different, and off in the slightest of ways. More confident, more sure of himself; Stanley briefly wondered what had torn down all those qualities and made him the insecure man he had known.  

“This- This is ridiculous.” He put a hand to his forehead with a huff, giving Stanley a smile of disbelief. “A memory eraser… while it isn’t completely preposterous, it’s something I’d never use on myself. The physicians say its stress and other… mental complications.”

“The tea you’re drinking is Lavender.” Fiddleford’s hand unraveled from the cup quickly. “It’s your favorite kind of tea, even if it is a bit unusual.” _I know because it was on your lips the first night we kissed,_ he doesn’t say.

“That doesn’t prove anything. People can distinguish tea by smell. It was a lucky guess.”

Stanley rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair.

“Okay, how ‘bout this: Your favorite color is green.”

“That one’s easy to guess too; my sweater’s green, some of my furniture is green--”

“You play the banjo.”

“It’s the accent that’s giving it away, isn’t it?” Fiddleford was smiling now. It was almost like a game: see who could outwit each other to prove a point first. Stanley found himself grinning along.

“You loooove books.”

“Mhmm, well, there’s a bookshelf right in the living room. I’m not just keeping around books too _look_ smart. You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“Your favorite foods are anything and everything sweet, but especially pies. It’s super weird but you like them more than cakes. You’re more of a cat person, but you have a soft spot for large dogs. You went to Backupsmore and majored in robotic engineering. Along the way you couldn’t decide a career path in science and took other classes like astronomy and medicine. You have a bad habit of biting your nails and your neck is sensitive as hell. You talk in your sleep a lot. You’re smarter than anyone I know, even my brother and he’s a fucking genius. What else do I have to say?”

Fiddleford was speechless, large eyes focused on the boxer. He had retreated into the chair, pushing himself so hard against the back that he had crumpled in on himself, the way he only did when he was frightened.

“Oh no,” Stanley pleaded, reflexively reaching out and grabbing the other man’s hands, “please, please, please don’t be afraid of me. God, I couldn’t take that. I’m a friend. I promise. I’m not going to hurt you, not in a thousand years.”

Fiddleford was shaking, but he didn’t turn away. Something about the man’s voice told him he was being honest.

“I don’t- I don’t even know your name and you know my life story.” He laughed to cover up the whimper it had started as. The boxer looked crestfallen. He licked his lips, eyes darting around the room as he paused. He ran a hand through his hair, slicking back the bangs he had let grow so long.

“I’m Stanley. Stanley Pines.”

“Stanley…” Fiddleford repeated softly, the name feeling pleasant on his tongue. The boxer’s heart nearly stopped altogether.

“It sounds familiar, your face, too. I just can’t place it.”

“Maybe if you think hard enough--”

Their conversation was interrupted as a door creaked open across the house, the slow whining of the hinges carrying all the way to the kitchen. The two men at the table turned to watch the newcomer enter the room.

“Dad?” The small boy rubbed an eye with a tiny fist, before letting it fall to his side.

Stanley’s insides went cold.

“Tate, what are you doin’ up at this hour? You should be asleep!” Fiddleford answered.

“I heard talking.” The kid eyed Stanley, the boxer starred unblinking back at the child. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine. Just some business I needed to attend to.” The engineer said, adding a soft, “Hold on,” to Stanley as he crossed the room and swept up the kid in his arms. The boxer could still hear their muffled conversation as the other carried the boy down the hall.

Every second of silence consumed him.

A son.

Fiddleford had a son.

_Holy fuck._

Fiddleford returned, a lopsided grin on his features as he picked up his mug again.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized, “my son can be somewhat of an insomniac sometimes.” Stanley couldn’t bring himself to do anything but nod numbly. He thought he had been the closest person to Fiddleford in the world, thought that he knew the engineer like the back of his hand. Why had he never mentioned a kid? Stanley cleared his throat, realizing just how uncomfortably long the silence had spanned.

“He must’ve gotten that from you, huh?”

Fiddleford smiled at that one, genuinely. He set his empty cup down in the sink before turning back around to face the man in his kitchen with a sigh.

“Listen… Stanley, if you have any proof, or clue, or anything on the last five years, I would love to see it.”

A lightbulb went off in Stanley’s head. He fumbled for his inside pocket, located on the breast of the jacket. He picked up his wallet, flashing the item to the engineer before placing it on the table.

“Okay,” He muttered as he opened it up, sifting through the many cards, I.Ds, and other miscellaneous items, before finding what he had kept hidden away.

“Bingo!”

He held the picture carefully, as if it might crumble to dust at any moment.

It was from a fond moment about two years ago. Just long enough after Fiddleford had moved in for the man to really be comfortable, and just far enough away from the numerous dangers that they were all relaxed. Stanley was smiling so widely, his eyes were almost shut. The camera had caught his brother mid eye-roll, to his right with one of Stanley’s arms draped across his shoulders, while Fiddleford stood to his left, biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh at the twins.

It made his chest ache, just to look at what he had had. But in a way, it only made him more determined to win it all back.

He held the picture out further for Fiddleford to see as the man appeared over his shoulder.

Stanley could practically feel the tension radiating off the engineer as his eyes bore into the picture. Solid evidence that he really had been having black outs, that he really didn’t remember much of his past.

Evidence that he really was going insane, as he had feared. Fiddleford swallowed thickly, looking defeated.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion finally setting in.

“I don’t know what to make of this. It’s scientifically feasible, almost anything is. But I don’t know if I exactly want to believe right now. This… This changes everything.” He sighed again, meeting the boxer’s worried gaze. This certainly wasn’t a man out to trick him.

“You mentioned a lab, right? And a brother? Why don’t you take me down there tomorrow morning, and I can decide for myself?”

“Oh! Yeah, we can head out to the Shack. It’s not in the best condition because I haven’t been around in… a while. But I’m sure as soon as you get there you’ll have to remember something. It’s gotta trigger somethin’, right?”

Fiddleford gave the man a small smile.

“I hope so.”

Stanley reached out, placing a hand on the smaller’s shoulder, before awkwardly drawing it away. They technically didn’t know each other and he had no idea how much personal space to apply.

“First thing tomorrow then?” The boxer stood, unfolding the pushed up sleeves off his jacket and he crossed into the living room and towards the door.

“Wait, you’re going back out there?” The engineer questioned incredulously. Stanley glanced behind him before nodded ‘yes’. Fiddleford snorted and crossed his arms.

“Do you take me for being completely heartless? It’s practically a snowstorm, and you’re half drunk.” Stanley blinked in surprise. Even when he was wiped from his memories, the engineer had seen through his attempt to appear more sober than he actually was, and was even attempting to keep the boxer safe.

“You can sleep on my couch tonight. Just don’t… touch anything. Okay?”

Stanley, for the fourth time that night, found himself speechless. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had slept in a real home, even if it was just on a couch. Fiddleford returned with a carefully folded quilt soon after, placing on the couch with a small pat.

Fiddleford gulped as he glanced at the blank man.

Stanley. The name made his stomach twist. He knew it, somewhere deep down. The boxer sighed, eyes gaining back their focus. He met the engineer’s gaze with a smile. Fiddleford felt relief wash over him. That smile suited his companion much better, was much more familiar in an odd way. Maybe this wasn’t just some elaborate scam after all.

The smaller man grimaced, turning on a heel to face away from the other man.

“Get some rest. You look like you could use it.”

“You too.”

And with that, Fiddleford left Stanley on the couch, his spirits sinking lower. It was so odd to be so close to a person that you slept in the same bed with them, and then one day be unsure what was overstepping boundaries. Fiddleford hadn't just erased all their good times, but a part of himself. The boxer had worked hard to get their friendship to where it had been. Fiddleford had wanted nothing to do with him in the beginning, but they had slowly worked away from that to playful banter, to joking, and then finally…

Stanley flopped ungracefully onto the couch. Maybe he could at least get a few hours of shut eye before morning. He sighed, burying his face into a pillow.

He had a lot of work ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A newcomer enters the mix! Oh man, I really love Dad Fidds, so of course I had to write in Tate. He's so precious as a little kid.
> 
> I know in my last chapter I talked about an upcoming hiatus, but honestly it could come at anytime. It just depends to whatever life throws at me. This week I had a lot of freedom and so I was able to update waaay faster. But that may not be the case here soon, so bare with me!
> 
> Anyways, as always, leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!


	14. Back to the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley tries to trigger Fiddleford's memory by showing him the Shack again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, back to the wonky schedule that's kind of sorta updating every week or so.
> 
> Trigger warnings: just some mild violence that's only about a sentence or two long.

It’s the sound of thunder that woke him up, rather than the tiny hands pressed against his face.

Stanley sat up quickly, the child falling off his chest and into his lap with a squeak. The fleeting moment of panic faded; it was just thunder, no one knew he was in Oregon, and no one was going to come after him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, glancing around the unfamiliar interior. Last night’s events surfaced in his mind.

He was in Fiddleford’s home. He was going to take him to the Shack today, and see if the man remembered anything. And, he pressed a hand over his forehead, judging by the dull head ache and the cold sweat, he had a hangover.

He looked down in surprise as the kid in his lap giggled. _Oh right, there's a little tyke running around here too._

The child reached up, his hands grabbing onto the boxer’s bangs.

“Now, just what do you think you’re doin’?” Stanley asked in a joking voice, raising an eyebrow at the kid.

“Your hair is really long!” He giggled, pulling on Stanley’s tousled hair.

“Aw, kid, you flatter me.” The boxer sarcastically responded, trying to stop the twitch drawing the corners of his mouth up. He considered himself good with kids, probably not the best role model, but at least he could make them laugh. He wondered as to why Fiddleford hadn’t brought this little bundle of joy by the Shack. The child flashed him a big smile, moving his hands to the part of Stanley’s hair that went past his shoulders, giving it a small tug.

“Uh,” Stanley cleared his throat, “Your name’s Tate, right?” 

Tate sat back, giving the boxer a single nod.

“How old are you, Tate?”

He looked puzzled for a moment before his eyes lit up, knowing the answer. The boxer had seen that look before; this was definitely Fiddleford’s kid, right down to the similar blue eyes. Tate held up all the fingers on his left hand, and one more on his right: six, six years old. Stanley whistled, widening his eyes in surprise to humor the kid.

“Wow, you’re almost as old as me!”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty, almost thirty-one.”

“Woah,” The child’s mouth hung open in awe, “You’re super old…”

“Tell me about it, kid.” Stanley snickered, “I’m starting to get grey hairs. I found one the other day, actually. It runs early in the family. But at least I’m not as bad as-” The boxer froze, mouth slowly shutting into a tight frown.

He had caught himself before he mentioned his twin. He felt his heart sink.

Right. Stanford wasn’t here. The boxer wasn’t even sure if he should be referring to his brother in the present tense anymore.

“Dad has one of those!” The kid kept right on chatting, Stanley perking up a bit at his words. “He’s got the- the thing, uh,” Tate tapped right above his ear, indicating the streak of grey Fiddleford had acquired.

“It’s okay kid, I don’t exactly know the science-y term for that stuff anyways. That’s more up Fid--,” He grimaced, correcting himself, “more up your Dad’s alley than mine. Say,” He picked up the boy under his arms, the child giggling all the while, before setting him on the ground beside the couch, “why don’t we go see your Dad? Where is he, anyways?”

“Making breakfast. But don’t eat the food! It’s gross.” Tate stuck his tongue out. Stanley rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, he never was a great cook. But I’m not very picky, so let’s go find him and chow down.”

The small child bounced into the kitchen, leaving Stanley to loiter in the doorframe. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in a proper kitchen. The closest thing he had come to in recent months was a rotating hotdog grill in a gas station. Tate stood up on the tips of his toes to view the counter, and the pan in his father’s hands.

“Aw, _eggs_?”

“Good morning to you too.” Fiddleford grumbled, ruffling the boy’s hair with his donned oven mitt. The engineer caught the sight of Stan out of the corner of his eye. He turned back to the oven before he spoke.

“Hello, Stanley.”

“Mornin’ Fidds.” He let the words slip without thinking; it was just habit. He watched as Fiddleford paused for a moment, before shutting his eyes tightly and giving his head a small shake. He shot Stan that odd, eyebrow raised look again.

The boxer took it as silent criticism.

Right. Boundaries. No more of those old pet names.

Fiddleford sighed, spooning eggs onto a plate with a spatula. He turned away from the oven, placing the dish on the table.

“Hurry up and eat, Tate. Your mother will be here soon to pick you up.” The boy pouted before climbing haphazardly into his chair and picking at his food with a fork.

Stanley stiffened. If Fiddleford didn’t remember most of the past five years, then what exactly did he remember about the ex-wife situation? Was she even an ex? _What if she wasn’t?_ The thought made him sick to his stomach. _Okay, just bring it up gently_ , he thought to himself. Stanley cleared his throat, moving to lean against the counter.

“So… How is Laura?” He slipped in casually, dropping his voice so only the engineer could hear him. Fiddleford’s smile became strained, more practiced.

“She’s good. She moved out of town a while ago.” His voice dipped lower, “One of the few things I do remember is the divorce, if that’s what you’re asking.” The reply was snappier, then the engineer had meant it to be, but the wound, though old in years, was fresh in his mind. It was one of the few things he remembered upon waking up after the incident.

Stanley gave him a sheepish smile, being caught red handed. He found a spot on the floor and focused on it. _Okay, so that had been tactless_ , he thought to himself, but at least he had found out what he wanted. And it had made him more hopeful, if anything. He found his gaze shifting, moving to the engineer. Maybe, if his wife wasn’t in the picture, then the man was single.

  _Priorities!_ He yelled in his head, wanting to slap himself for letting his mind wander like that. Stanley told himself he could live with just being friends, it was much better than being separate altogether. Still, the engineer wasn’t the type of guy to just up and go on a date. It took time, calculated risks, and a lot of reassurance.

 Fiddleford broke the boxer’s train of thought by turning towards the boy at the table.

“Tate… Don’t just play with your food. Eat it.”

The kid muttered something to himself.

“What was that?” Fiddleford asked, a little more sternly as he wiped his fogged up glasses on a dishtowel.

“Mom will just take me to get better food for breakfast anyways.”

Stanley watched Fiddleford freeze up as the doorbell sounded from outside. Tate stood, grabbing a blue backpack hung on a chair opposite to him.

“Bye Dad. Bye weird guy who sleeps on our couch.” The boy called over his shoulder before rushing out of the door.

A moment of icy silence descended upon them.

The engineer seemed to physically slump over, shoulders drooping as his son practically ran out of his apartment. Stanley wanted to hug him, maybe even just a hand resting on the man’s shoulder, but he was unsure as to what was too forward and what was comfortable.

“That’s one interesting kid ya got there, Fiddleford.” The engineer looked up defensively, before realizing how sincere Stanley was being. “He’s got spunk.”

“He’s just acting up because there’s a new person and he’s nervous. He’s normally a quiet kid.”

“Quiet?” Stanley laughed, “He woke me up this morning by jumping up on me and patting my face, and then he told me I was old. I mean, not that I mind, it was fun, but he doesn’t seem very quiet.” And before he could filter his thoughts from his words, he let slip, “Maybe he’s just like that around you.”

The grin Fiddleford had been displaying his entire story disappeared.

“I-I didn’t mean it that way--”

“It’s fine. I just- I don’t know what she’s been telling him, or what I even did to them in the past years,” The smaller man muttered, “but ever since she gave me some custody rights, I can’t ever seem to get on his good side. It’s always an uphill battle.”

Stanley edged a bit closer, offering the man a sympathetic look, “Kids are just kids. If you only recently got him back, and I’m assuming you did because you didn’t have him when you were with us, then he’s probably still getting used to this whole thing. He’s probably still a little unsure how to deal with this. I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

Fiddleford’s forehead relaxed a bit at that, but the man still looked defeated. The boxer decided to change the subject to something more positive. His eyes wondered for a conversational piece, narrowing once he found it. He couldn't stop the snicker that overcame him and broke the silence. The engineer glanced up, looking curious.

“Sorry, I just noticed that stylish apron you’re wearing.” Stanley said, motioning to the checker patterned fabric and the small frills. Fiddleford put his hands on his hips, and shot the boxer a glare. Stanley lost it, hunching over as he clutched his sides.

“You just look so much like the stereotypical house wife. I can’t--” He put a hand over his mouth, trying to halt the flow of laughter. The engineer was still scowling, but this time, he had the smallest of smiles across his face. 

"Ha Ha, very funny." Fiddleford mocked, crossing his arms. "Dont' we have something important to do today?" 

“You're right, you're right.” The boxer clasped his hands together, finally getting control over his voice again. “Let's head over to the Shack. Daylight’s a-wasting.”

\--

One thing he couldn’t get over from Fiddleford’s loss of memories was that the engineer drove now. That left him, Stanley Pines, to take shotgun. It was sacrilege. He had no idea what to do with his hands, much less his eyes, that always seemed to travel to the engineer no matter the circumstance. He had tried smoking to keep himself busy, but Fiddleford had looked very displeased with the idea of cigarettes in his truck.

“So,” The engineer cleared his throat, “I’ve been wondering… What exactly was I like, you know, before all of this?”

Stanley didn’t miss a beat.

“You were great. Really nerdy, into robotics and reading and taking notes and stuff. You got fed up easily, but that’s mostly because of my part, but all around, you were- uh, are- a nice person. You helped us a lot.”

Fiddleford nodded, taking it all in.

“And this ‘us’ you keep referring to? It’s--”

“Me and my brother, Stanford.”

“You’re both named Stan?” The engineer asked incredulously. 

“Heh, Pops wasn’t too creative.” Stanley had been asked that enough in his lifetime to have the answer memorized, rolling off his tongue easily.

“Where is your brother? Why didn’t he come with you?”

“Oh, uh- Ford’s, Ford is out on vacation. You probably won’t see him around for a while; he’s pretty busy with his science stuff.”

Fiddleford nodded, turning his full attention back to the wheel. Stanley gulped, shoving his hands into his pockets. He shouldn’t have to meet Fiddleford all over again, not after what they had been through together. This was all wrong, too impersonal. It reminded him too much of their beginnings.

When Stanley had first come to the Shack, upon his brother’s request many years ago, his family’s betrayal (namely Ford’s) was still the main focus of his life. His brother had no idea what he had been through, and finally weaseling it out of the boxer had made for a long task. But before even then, he had wanted to make everyone aware of how hurt he’d been. Even to Ford’s assistant. Stanley had been jealous that Ford didn’t consider him competent enough to help with bigger projects, and when Fiddleford had arrived, Stanley had taken his fears out on him.

He hadn’t been a bully, no, there was nothing he hated more than a bully, but he certainly hadn’t been helpful either. He liked to scare the engineer, make him annoyed, and play tricks and pranks on him, just to get any reaction he could. It was better than stewing over his own problems.

Of course though, Fiddleford had grown to think of him as a bumbling oaf. They had gotten in more than their fair share of arguments. That was, until they’re attempt at a monster hunt had gone terribly wrong.

_“Don’t touch anything.” Stanford said sternly, shining the light over the treasures littered about the room. The house was tiny, only two rooms big, but the second had been filled with gold. Stanley’s eyes almost bulged out of his head at the sight. His twin knew nothing of poverty, of barely scrapping by on a day-to-day basis, and maybe just a handful of this was worth more than he had ever made in his life. He’d take his chances, even if he himself had nothing to hide the goods away in._

_He slipped the coins into the engineer’s backpack while he wasn’t looking, promising that he would return for the cash when they had arrived back at the Shack._

_He hadn’t known a hellhound hard been guarding the treasure, and was bound by a spell to punish those who trespassed and stole._

_The three stopped in their tracks as the black dog dipped its head down, its ears pulled back tight over its skull. It barked, flashing its razor-like teeth with each snarl, its wiry, entangled fur standing on end. Stanley threw out an arm in front of the engineer, his eyes locking with the red of the dog’s._

_It knew._

_Fiddleford took two cautious steps back. The hound sprung. The boxer managed to shoulder it out of the air; it skidded along the ground until its side connected with a rock, coming to an unpleasant halt._

_“Move!” Stanford commanded, rousing the other two from their shock. The boxer had dealt with dogs before, something he had learned by the many times he had crossed borders without permits. But this was no average guard dog. The canine didn’t whimper and run away. No, it shook the dust off its wild fur before standing tall again. Stanley fled out of the clearing, following the harsh breathing he knew was his twin._

_The scientist and engineer jumped when they heard him crash through the bushes, but relief flooded through them once they realized who it was._

_“What. The hell. Was that?” Stanley breathed, glaring at his brother who, in return, took out his journal._

_“Probably a hellhound. They protect supernatural burial grounds. But… I don’t understand. It shouldn’t have attacked us unless… Wait, which one of you stole something?” Stanley avoided the question as he eyed something glittering on the ground. Until then, he hadn’t even noticed the engineer’s signature circular lenses were missing from the bridge of his nose._

_“Hey nerd,” He snatched them up, “I think you dropped--”_

_The air left his lungs in a shocked wheeze as the dog came barreling through the trees, tackling the engineer to the ground._

_Fiddleford screamed._

_And for one awful moment, Stanley thought the man was going to die._

_And then Stanford’s boot connected with the hell hound’s ribcage, and the creature was knocked off. Stanley pulled the smaller man to his feet, frantically asking if he was okay. When the hound rose again, it latched onto his leg, snapping its head from side to side to tear at the boxer’s flesh. He hissed, whipping around and punching the monster in the snout. It stumbled for a moment, dazed._

_They took their finally opportunity to flee again, feet crunching through the snow, the landscape dead silent expect for their labored breaths. It wasn’t long before the boxer found the hound in his peripherals again._

_“Fiddleford, give me your bag!” He yelled, holding out a hand._

_“What? I didn’t take anything!”_

_“Just give it to me!”_

_As the dog neared, the howling increasing in volume, Stanley saw a glimpse of pure fear in the smaller man’s eyes. It made his stomach churn; he never wanted to see that look on a person for as long as he lived._

_The boxer took the bag and threw it at the hound, not pausing to see if the canine had gotten the message, before pulling the engineer further into the forest. Their gait was uneven, leaving a scarlet trail behind them as they walked. Fiddleford did his best to support the much bulkier boxer as they half limped, half ran as fast as they could._

_But the hell hound never came back. And they eventually caught up to Stanford and made it home._

_He recalled sitting on the couch, long after his brother had retreated back to his lab, while Fiddleford remained, buzzing around him anxiously and prodding at his wounded calf. It was then that he had returned the man’s glasses, forgetting that he had been holding onto them this entire time._

_And it was then that their fighting ceased. They had arguments, but it was mostly good natured, from both parts. Fiddleford learned to play along with his sarcasm instead of just deflecting it, and even showed a bit of his own sense of humor._

_It was through those moments, where the boxer had let his guard down for mere seconds, that Fiddleford had seen a glimmer of a good person in him. And it was those few seconds that sealed all of their fates._

“This is the place right?” Fiddleford’s cautious tone brought him back from his daydreams. They had paused on the main road, just on the outskirts of town, where it bridged off into a scraggly path to the left.

“Yeah. Just turn here and keep following the road for a little while.”

Fiddleford leaned closer to the wheel, eyes looking up at the trees overhead as he slowed to match the dips in the gravel. The trees weighed heavily with dustings of snow, branches low and swaying in the biting wind.

“This place sure is secluded.” His voice wobbled with the tiniest bit of nervousness, hands gripping the wheel tighter. He fidgeted in his seat.

“Ford liked to keep his research… private. He wasn’t really into the whole ‘trusting other people’ thing, and he didn’t want anyone snooping around.”

Fiddleford gulped, his eyebrows raising, “Really? What is he like?”

“A workaholic. Selfish. Bossy. Insanely smart, really a hands on guy, though. Like he would drag you and me out into the forest with him to go on these explorations. But he wasn’t- _isn’t_ all bad. He’s pretty friendly and agreeable and enthusiastic. Not like me though, I’ve got _personality_.”

“I’ve noticed.” The engineer said dryly, a smile spreading across his face. “Tell me, what exactly do you classify as ‘personality’?”

“Heh, ya know, charisma, comedy, bravery, devilishly handsome. All that junk.” Fiddleford snorted, and Stanley suddenly found himself concerned as to which part of that sentence the man was laughing about. But before he could voice his worries aloud, they came to a halt.

Fiddleford looked slowly from the shack, windows boarded up, numerous satellite dishes speckling the top of the house, snow making the porch sag, before casting a sidelong glance at the boxer.

“Oh my god. You are an axe murderer, aren’t you?”

Stanley’s only answer was to put on the toothiest smile he could manage and wiggle his fingers in feigned menace. The engineer tugged uselessly on his door handle, forgetting he had locked it.

“I’m just messin’ with ya.” Stanley managed in-between laughs, “You don’t gotta be afraid of me.” When Fiddleford had grown less rigid, he added, “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.”

The interior of the Shack was more cluttered than he had realized; but in his defense, he had only been inside for a few hours before leaving. Stanley pushed open the door, heading inside before the engineer. He himself had no problem with mess, but Fiddleford on the other hand… Stanley inwardly cringed.

“Sorry about all this,” the boxer apologized as he pushed a blackboard out of the way against the wall, “My brother has no sense of organization.” Fiddleford nodded in response, starring around at the equipment littering the Shack. Stanley guided their way through the house, carefully stepping over wires and tools scattered across the floor. When he reached the elevator door to the lab, he paused.

The boxer had nearly forgotten he had wedged one of Stanford’s tables against it so no one would enter while he was gone. Okay, it wasn’t his best idea, he admitted, but he had been very drunk and even more paranoid.

“H-Hold on,” He said, grabbing the table before he remembered the lab equipment on top of it. “Let me just-” Stanley grabbed a set of beakers. In the process on setting them down on the dining room table (or what was visible of it), one tumbled out of his hand, spilling its contents on the floor. The two watched in silence at it ate away and burned the carpet below.

“Glad that wasn’t my hand!” Stanley laughed nervously, catching Fiddleford’s horrified expression at his recklessness towards lab safety. The boxer moved to grab the last thing, a small square box.

“Wait!” Fiddleford hissed, moving forward to grab his arm. “That’s an autoclave. And it’s still plugged in.” At Stanley’s blank expression he sighed, “That means you’ll scald yourself if you grab it bare handed."

“Oh.”

He took off his jacket, using it as a makeshift oven mitt as he carried the bubbling machine to the table. He felt Fiddleford’s eyes burning into his back as he set it down and donned the coat.

“Come on,” Stanley motioned to the engineer before grabbing the door handle, “the lab is this way.” He led the engineer down the stairs and to the elevator, the doors opening with a ding.

“Do you have any idea what most of that stuff does in there?” Fiddleford asked once he had settled in, the quiet hum of machinery filling the enclosed space. “I haven’t seen this much lab equipment since… Since ever.”

“Stanford takes his stuff pretty seriously. He has this huge ass grant, so he can pretty much splurge as much as he wants.” He sighed, feeling a burst of newfound jealousy in his chest. “And no, you two practically banned me from doing anything downstairs, so I have no idea what any of this junk does. You and Stanford mostly had me just lift things.” He shrugged.

“That would explain it.”

The boxer’s grin faded. The engineer must have thought he was an idiot. He felt his stomach twist in shame, but quickly pushed it down. The door dinged again. Stanley took a few steps out, placing his hands on his hips.

“And this is what I call ‘The Nerd Room’, but Stanford mostly calls it the Lab or the Portal room. You know, because of the giant portal over there.” He motioned to the dark, metallic triangle hanging from the other side. “That’s the whole reason we’re down here. Sorry for not mentioning earlier, I didn’t think you’d believe me. Memory erasing is one thing, but interdimensional whatsits are a whole ‘nother thing. So-”-

Stanley paused once he noticed the engineer wasn’t at his side. He turned--

The man was still in the elevator, backed against the far wall. His wide, blue eyes were locked on the portal.

“Hey, Fiddleford, don’t worry. The thing’s turned off, pretty much permanently. I couldn’t turn it on if I tried. Actually, that’s the whole problem. But see? It’s safe here.”

The engineer’s eyes darted from the portal, to the boxer, to the portal again. He gulped and slowly shook his head. Fiddleford willed his dry tongue to unstick from the bottom of his mouth and form words again.

“Something’s… not right.”

“C’mon. Nothin’ is gonna hurt you. I promise.” Stanley coaxed, returning to take Fiddleford’s hand and carefully guide him out. He took his first step onto the concert, shoulders relaxing a bit as he stared at the boxer.

Suddenly, he pulled out of Stanley’s grasp, his breathing becoming more ragged. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, digging his fingernails into his sides as he glanced around the room wildly, as if at any moment now, something was going to spring up from the shadows.

“Something’s very, _very_ wrong.”

“What are you talkin’ about? This place is perfectly safe. Just come with me and--”

“No!” Fiddleford heaved for breath as he stumbled backwards, shaking his head. Spots flashed before his eyes, along with the rushing feeling of dizziness. It all came so fast, he had no way to prepare, no way to stop himself. The engineer squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “I-I can’t--!”

The world tilted on its axis, the ground rushed up to meet him in his descent.

The boxer caught Fiddleford as he fainted, brow furrowed in confusion. He lowered the limp man onto the ground. Stanley crouched next Fiddleford, hands hovering above his form. The engineer looked so fragile, the pain and horror gone from his face. Stanley held his breath as his eyes travelled down to see if the man was breathing. The gentle rise and fall of his chest told him that yes, Fiddleford was still breathing, just unconscious.

His mind raced for what he should do. Call an ambulance? _Out in Gravity Falls?_ He could move him out of the basement, but that would require him carrying the engineer and… He couldn’t bring himself to touch the man in fear he would mess something up. The boxer felt his stomach plummet, panic setting it and taking its hold. _Fuck,_ he thought, chastising himself, _I should have known not to bring him back, not after Ford. Ugh, how can I be so stupid?!_

Fiddleford shot up with a gasp of breath.

Stanley fell back.

That’s when the screaming started. It took the boxer a moment to register that that awful, soul-crushing wail, the type he had only heard from caged animals, was coming from Fiddleford. He watched, mouth agape, as the noise continued, the engineer pulling his folded legs to cover his face. Stanley could think to do nothing, once again he was frozen in shock. The screams tapered off into quiet wailing, and then small, crushed whimpers.

Stanley was dumbfounded; he had never seen someone in such a state of shock, not even after the shapeshifter incident. The engineer had never seemed more broken. What exactly had his brother _done?_

He moved gradually, as calmly as he could manage, scooting closer and closer to the tensed man, cowering on the ground. The boxer reached out a hand and edged it onto Fiddleford’s arm. The engineer hardly reacted at all, almost unaware of the other’s presence as he tried to combat the awful clawing feeling in his head. When Stanley was sure that the engineer was safe to touch, and when he received no penalty, he moved his arms to engulf the smaller man.

Fiddleford tensed, suddenly falling silent. Stanley stayed very still, waiting. He waited for the engineer to excuse himself, waited for him to pulled away and warn him about personal space, waited for him to get up and walk away altogether.

The engineer took a deep breath and slackened up, lowering his legs, and pushing himself more fully into the embrace. Stanley tightened his grip, feeling tears on the curve of his neck where the engineer had rested his head.

“I’m sorry.” The boxer said quietly, dragging his hand up and down the smaller man’s spine. He felt Fiddleford shiver at his touch. “I don’t know what happened here, but Stanford did something with the portal and it made you leave and use that gun and… And I should have been more careful and not rushed you into this and I should have told you about the portal. But I’m not gonna let anything hurt you. It’s all okay now.”

Fiddleford took a deep, shaky breath, and gingerly pulled away. Stanley’s hands came to rest on the man’s hips out of habit. The engineer was still trembling, but he looked much more collected, much less pale. The boxer quickly snatched back his hands, hoping the touch would go unnoticed. Fiddleford dug the heels of his palm into his eyes, before pulling them away and fixing his skewed glasses.

“I don’t- I don’t know why I’m crying. It just all seemed so sad suddenly.” He made a weak attempt to laugh. Stanley felt his throat tighten.

“I remember… What happened here. With the portal.” He said softly. Stanley nodded, leaning forward with interest.

“My head was pounding and a flash went off behind my eyelids and I- I saw it play out again. I don’t know how to describe it, like I was reliving all of it in a rapid succession.” Fiddleford paused, still sniffling. “He looked a lot like you, your brother I mean. I guess you are twins, huh? But we were working on, on that terrible _thing_ and I got sucked through and-” Fiddleford’s eyes grew wider, more vacant, “I-I never should have seen what’s beyond that portal. No one should.”

“Did you…” Stanley trailed off, balling his hands into fists. He didn’t mean to be selfish, but he needed to know the answer like he needed air to breathe.

“Did you remember anything with me in it?”

Fiddleford shook his head, not meeting the other’s eyes. The boxer’s heart fell to the bottom of his chest.

“But I do remember something important.” He looked up, eyes narrowed, alight with determination.

“I don’t believe the old me ever told you, but it’s time for you to know about Bill Cipher.”

\---

Bill Cipher, as it had turned out, was not a man at all, but a dream demon.

Stanley took another sip of his coffee. It was the easiest thing to make, and the only clear path in the kitchen ended in the coffee maker on the counter. _Classic Ford._

The boxer had urged Fiddleford that, if this conversation was going to be a long one, then they should take it upstairs and not on the uncomfortable cement floor. He sat back against the sofa’s pillow, trying to distract himself how delicately his thigh brushed against the other man’s.

“So you’re telling me,” He placed the mug onto the coffee table, “you made a deal with a demon. You don’t remember what it was over, or what exactly caused you to do it in the first place, but this demon is what got you sucked into that portal? And probably what Stanford was so afraid of?” Fiddleford nodded his head, letting Stanley continue, “So he manipulated you and forced you to change the place the portal opened up, basically drove you off the wall with crazy nightmares, and threatened to make your life a living hell?”

“Yes. He’s the reason I…” Fiddleford trailed off with a sigh. He didn’t have the courage to say aloud what he had done. How he had pressed the memory gun to his head and blasted it all away.

“Alright, it’s settled then. I’m going to kick his ass.”

The engineer blanched. His head pulsed, his vision flashing of another time with Stanley, a time in the past. They were much closer together, one of the boxer’s arm lazily draped across the back of the couch. The engineer leaned into it, attracting Stanley’s attention. Fiddleford felt something tug on his heart when he noticed how fiercely the boxer was staring at him. He shut his eyes tightly and shook it away. He was back in the present, but the man’s gaze was just as strong.

“W-What?”

“Where is he? I’ll make sure he never sees the light of day again.”

“He- He’s a demon! You can’t hurt him, I’m not even sure if he’s a physical thing!”

“So what? I’ll make him physical. No one gets to mess with you. Period. Well, except me and occasionally Stanford, but that’s all done out of good intentions. Now this, this is different. And I’m going to kick his triangular ass.”

“That’s a really bad idea.” Fiddleford said, shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh. The conversation was serious, but the way it was coming across was just too much. The boxer was going to try to beat an omnipotent, magical demon _with his bare hands_.

“So what? My whole life has just been a string of bad ideas. I’m used to it. What’s giving a demon a good left hook gonna change anything?” Stanley rolled his eyes, fighting back the grin that tugged at his lips. It was then that Fiddleford laughed, really laughed, that head turning bray before he clasped his hand over his mouth, dissolving into a series of quiet chuckles. It was music to Stanley’s ears.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.” Fiddleford said when he had regained his composure, smiling into his coffee mug.

“Uh, that’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes.” The engineer said with such sincerity, the boxer’s breath caught in his throat. Stanley coughed, trying to make the short silence that had followed less memorable.

“So, I guess there’s nothing you can do about the portal for me, can you?”

Fiddleford swallowed thickly.

“What exactly is so important that you need to get it powered up again? I’ve seen the dangers it holds; it could very well destroy us all. We could cause the end of the world. What is it that you’re risking the destruction of everything for?” Stanley took a deep breath and steadied his voice.

“Stanford, he…” The boxer tightened his hold around the mug, “He was working on it and fell in." Stanley bit his lip. He could do this. He lied for a living, what was one more?

“Stanford is… gone?”

Stanley shook his head.

“No, he’s only been in there for about two days. I think he can survive on his own for a while, he’s really resilient and into all that sci-fi junk. He’s pretty much trained himself his whole life for this sort of thing. But I don’t know how long it will be until he finally does…” He sucked in another breath, afraid to say the last part aloud. If he did, he’d have to accept the fact that Stanford could be dead and gone, and it would be his fault. “Point being, I need to get him back, and fast.”

“Stanley… He knew the dangers of that machine. I warned him. And when he didn’t listen--”

“I know, I know, it’s kind of like karma, right? But I just can’t- I don’t want to be without him again. We were fighting before he fell in, and I don’t want to leave him on bad terms again. He just invited me back into his life.”

Stanley looked away.

“You were the only person I could turn to. I can’t do this alone; I might never be able to accomplish it, even if I studied up on all his books! With you, we might be able to fix things.”

“I-I don’t know…”

“Please, Fiddleford. He would do the same for me. And I would do the same for you. If you don’t want to, because of all that went down back there, I can understand. If you’re going to have another one of those attacks, then maybe we can work something else out. But if you think you could give this a shot, then there might be a chance of saving my brother.”

Fiddleford sighed, downing the rest of his coffee before placing the cup on a coaster.

“Give me some time to think it over, okay? I don’t want a repeat of what happened in the lab. But, since the stakes are so high… I’ll consider it.” Stanley’s eyes lit up.

“So that’s a maybe?!”

“Well, technically--”

The boxer pumped his fist in the air.

“We’re getting the Mystery Trio back together!”

Fiddleford blinked, one eyebrows slowly raising.

“Is that really what we called ourselves? We couldn’t think of anything… better?”

But even the engineer’s age old criticism couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. It only reminded him that this was still Fiddleford, no matter how much development between them they had lost.

Despite everything, Fiddleford was still himself.

\---

Stanley drove the engineer home once it had gotten late, and they had stopped their discussion of Stanley recanting some of their more memorable (or in Fiddleford’s case, not so memorable) time’s, and plans for what to do next. Fiddleford hadn’t made his decision about fixing the portal, but from what Stanley could read from his expression, the man had already given in.

He pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot before switching the car’s radio off. With a smile, he turned to the engineer, who was currently griping the dashboard as if his life depended on it. The boxer shot him a silent questioning glance.

“Remind me to never let you drive again.” Fiddleford said, prying himself off the dashboard. “You steer like an absolute maniac.”

“Ah, well, I can’t really see too far ahead of me without my glasses.” Stanley grinned, leaning back in the leather seat.

“Are you telling me,” the engineer deadpanned, “that you need glasses, and have been driving like that without them?”

“Well, yeah.”

_“Why don’t you wear them then?!”_

“Because, then I wouldn’t look as cool.” He winked at the man in the passenger seat. The engineer sighed, exasperated.

“Also,” Fiddleford added, opening his car door with a click, “you shouldn’t play your radio so loud. You’ll go deaf by the time you’re 40.”

“What?” Stanley joked. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes in response, folding his coat over an arm before stepping out of the car. The boxer leaned out the window as the man walked to the other side.

“So, when do we get to work? Or whatever you decide to do?”

“Hmm…” Fiddleford frowned in thought, tapping his foot against the pavement. “Give me your number,” Stanley definitely didn’t turn red at that, “so I can call you. We’ll get a day whenever the Northwests aren’t running me ragged, and I’ll see what we can do to get your brother back.” Stanley grabbed the back of an old receipt and hurriedly wrote down the Shack’s phone number. The engineer carefully folded the scrap before tucking it among his pens in his shirt pocket.

“Alright. Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you then, Fidds- Ah, I mean Fiddleford.” He inwardly cursed himself for never being smooth with goodbyes. The engineer snickered.

“You don’t have to call me by my full name all the time, if you don’t want to. I’m not really upset by it, it was just a little strange in the beginning is all.”

Now that got Stanley grinning the widest he had all day.

“Alright. See ya around then, Fidds.”

The engineer waved before turning away, and heading to the flight of stairs.

Stanley could have jumped for joy. In fact, that was the first thing he did when he got home. He pulled the plastic skeleton Ford had for _whatever nerd reason_ into a tight hug, grinning wildly. Fiddleford was remembering. He was gonna get Ford back. He had a place to stay and no one wanted him dead.

Things were looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters after this will definitely be more eventful, we're just still stuck in that rut of Stanley trying to befriend Fiddleford and not scare him away, which is a lot harder than he originally thinks. People don't just become comfortable with each other over night. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter regardless! Leave a kudos or a comment if you did, and I appreciate your support greatly. Thank you.


	15. The Worst Babysitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford swings by the Shack to work on their project and decides to bring Tate along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When will I update on time? Probably never. But they will all come eventually. Luckily, it's only been a week since I last updated, so not too bad this time!
> 
> This chapter goes back to monster hunts, so there is a violence warning, and well as some very, very, minor gore. Also, if you have any sort of fear of losing your child in the wilderness, this is probably the worst thing you can read. Other than that its mostly fluff.
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

Stanley pulled on a glove, his bleary eyes watching as the chalk particles scattered in the beam of sunlight.

It was early; far too early for any person in their right mind to be awake, but here he was. He had planned this for a couple of weeks, always setting his alarm clock before thinking, is it really worth it? He would slide his hand over the snooze and snuggle back under his warm covers.

But today he rolled out of bed with a purpose, pulled on his white muscle shirt, and slipped on his boxing gloves.

He hadn’t gone through his old routine in a while; the man had been either too busy, or, to be frank, homeless. But with all that had happened in the last three weeks, he needed to clear his head. And boxing was his mind numbing medium, a wonderful combination of both getting his emotions out and mindless exercise. Plus, he looked down at his beer gut with a sigh, he needed to get back in shape (Tate had been the one who pointed it out, innocent as ever; Fiddleford had laughed for hours).

He slipped on the other glove, muscle memory preforming his age old routine he had quit three years earlier.

Stanley remembered the basics: keep your balance, keep your feet moving, and mean every punch. He swung his fist, watching with satisfaction as the bag swayed. Those fights in Vegas had kept him humble, but he still had it. Soon he was caught up in the swing of things, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moved with the bag, feeling the last weeks creep into his brain.

On days where he didn’t work on the portal, he ran something of his own creation, “The Murder Hut”. Yeah, it probably wasn’t the best name, but he had never been good at that anyways, and it seemed to stick with the townspeople and the tourists who had wondered by. The attraction had earned him enough cash to scrape by, and that's what mattered. Suckers were wuckers, just the same as they had been in his infomercial days.

At night he would pour over Stanford’s vast book collection. He was convinced he’d read more books in the past week than he had in his entire high school career. When he wasn't doing that, he was fixing up what he could in the basement. 

And then there was Fiddleford.

The engineer visited every other day; the two spent until late evening working on the portal. So far, Fiddleford had found the root of the problem, a combination of the lack of fuel and faulty circuiting. Now they needed to focus more on the schematics: where in the maze of wires had they gone wrong? The engineer had put it simply, “We’ll probably have to recalibrate the whole machine. I hope you know a little somethin’ about physics.”

But the best time of the day, was when he could convince Fiddleford to stay a little after dark, when they had stopped working and could sit and chat while the sun set. The engineer was slowly opening up, the air growing more friendly and comfortable. He could see the change in him, the smiles more real, his words more relaxed. Fiddleford blossomed for him like a flower.

They mostly joked around, speaking of their lives, of Tate, of the portal, of the future. The boxer would never push it, but eventually, the engineer would bring up things he had most recently remembered. Most of them consisted of his college days, his opinion of Stanford changing from mild animosity to understanding. Stanley learned more form Fiddleford of his brother’s college life than he had ever gotten out of his twin.

There were times, the ones that lifted the boxer’s spirit more than anything, where the engineer would remember things about him. Sometimes little details like, “You’re afraid of heights,” or “Why in the world can you braid hair so well?”

_“Did we go camping a while back?”_

_“Well,” Stanley snickered, “it wasn’t exactly on purpose. And we were being hunted by this tree thing the entire time.” Fiddleford nodded turning slightly pink. The boxer paused, a grin spreading across his face. He knew that look, the engineer was embarrassed, flustered even. For what he wondered? What exactly happened while camping that- oh. The message clicked: they had shared a sleeping bag that night. Oh._

_“S-Sorry, sometime I get memories in my dreams and I’m not exactly sure what is real and what’s not.”_

_“It’s fine!” Stanley nodded quickly, eager to change the subject before he turned red as well._

At least the man was remembering something. They had come a long way in such a short time.

But he was afraid it was overwhelming the engineer.

He knew Fiddleford, knew how to read him, knew him better than anyone else did, and he could tell the man was constantly on edge. He’d jump at the smallest noises, always check behind himself, and practically glued himself to the boxer whenever they entered the lab. Sometimes he would have these blackouts, standing perfectly still, lost in his own mind. It was often that the boxer had to wake him, and gently remind him of what he was doing. He wondered if it was a side effect of the memory gun.

Stanley knew the man was far from over what he had seen, or the demon that haunted his nightmares, and that Fiddleford wouldn’t be okay with either of those things for a long time. Stanley was fine with reassuring him, protecting the man in any way that he could, but he was still worried.

While he let his thoughts consume him, he hadn’t heard the car pull into his driveway. Or his doorbell ringing 12 times, or the door finally opening and the footsteps heading upstairs.

He didn’t even turn when his door opened.

“Stanley Pines!”

The boxer whipped around, his heart leaping into his throat.

Fiddleford glared at him from the doorway.

He let out a deep breath of relief, glad it wasn’t the Feds that had found him, or worse, the mob. Though, Fiddleford expression seemed angry enough to kill a man, the usually soft-spoken man losing his cool.  

“Oh hey, Fidds. What’s up?” He wiped the sweat off of his forehead with a hand.

“Would you mind explaining this?” The engineer hastily unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. Leaning closer, Stanley realized it was a newspaper clipping.

“Stan Pines Dead?” He read aloud, before leaning back. “Are you telling me it took them three weeks to find the crashed car? Christ, and here I was afraid of the cops in this town.”

“That’s not the point!” The engineer stomped his foot. “You didn’t think to _tell me_ you pulled a stunt like this? You faked your death and you didn’t think it would come up sometime?” And then, quieter, he added, “I was worried. I- I thought…”

Silence hung in the room as Fiddleford tore his sad eyes away from the boxer. Stanley’s stomach tightened as guilt washed over him; he despised seeing the other man so upset.

“Listen,” He said gently, placing a hand on the engineer’s shoulder, “You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily. Capiche? So don’t think like that.” Fiddleford swallowed thickly and nodded. He exhaled before stepping away from the other man, and pushing up his glasses.

“So, we’re working on the wiring today, correct?”

“Oh, yeah, if you aren’t doing anything else. Here let me just take-” He motioned to his still gloved hands, “-these off and we can get right to it.” The boxer turned his back to the engineer, placing the gloves back on his dresser.

Stanley froze when he heard a gasp behind him, before turning around.

“Stanley, what in Sam Hill is on your back?”

“My back?” He raised an eyebrow. “Fidds, I have no idea what you’re…” He folded a hand up to feel behind him, his fingers jerking back when he met the sensitive flesh on his shoulder. His face fell, heart plummeting. The burn, the one he had been branded with during the fight with Stanford.

The one where he had shoved him into the portal.

“Oh.” He said gravely.

“Turn around.” Fiddleford said; after a moment Stanley obliged, moving his hair to one side so the engineer could get a better look.

“Uh,” The engineer cleared his throat, “I-I can’t see it that well.” Through Fiddleford’s flustered mumbling, the unsaid question came through loud and clear.

“Okay.” Stanley said far too quickly and with far too much enthusiasm. The boxer slipped off the white tank top, crossing his arms and pulling it over his head with ease. He wished the engineer had asked to do this at a different time, when he wasn’t so _sweaty._

Fiddleford’s fingers brushed over his shoulder blade, tying his stomach in knots. Stanley balled his hands into fists, overcome with the urge to lean into the delicate touch. That was, until they pressed down on the taut, pained stretch of skin. The boxer sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, jerking away from the other’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford quickly apologized, “I was just seeing who sensitive that area was.”

“What’s you diagnosis, doc?”

“Well, it’s purple and swollen. It’s a bit discolored… It’s definitely infected. Where’d you get a burn like this?”

“I just fell. Don’t worry about it.” Stanley grumbled, mouth resting in a tight frown. He was glad he wasn’t facing the man, so he couldn’t see the guilt in his eyes.

“Stanley…” The engineer started carefully, “This looks an awful lot like the symbol on the console in the basement. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I said don’t worry about it.” Stanley said sharper than he meant to. The boxer felt Fiddleford’s palm flinch away from his back. He sighed, running a hand down his face. “It’s fine, just drop it.” He glanced over his shoulder, finding Fiddleford staring at him, his eyebrows knitted together in worry.

“Do you have a First Aid Kit?” The engineer asked lightly, moving on from the subject.

Stanley snorted.

“Thanks to you, we have one in every room of the house. It’s under the bed in here. You bought like, twelve of them after--”

“After the werewolves?”

The boxer’s crooked grin gradually returned to his face.

“You ‘member that?”

“Mhmm,” Fiddleford hummed, reaching between the gap between the bed and the floor, his hand searching blindly for a moment before he procured the small box. “I remember Stanford nearly got his arm torn off. And you had that nasty gash on your neck.” He rolled his eyes, pulling out a tube of cream and three large band aids.

“And you both insisted on not going to the hospital.”

“Insurance is for suckers.” Stanley snickered as he crossed his legs over the bedspread.

“You’re gonna be wishing you had insurance so you could get cheap painkillers in a moment.” The engineer sighed, dunking a cotton ball in hydrogen peroxide. He dabbed it against the pink flesh of the burn.

“What’s that supposed to m--  _Ow!_ ”

“Sorry.” Fiddleford said sheepishly, giving the boxer a small smile as the man whipped around. “I thought it would be easier to get it over this way.”

“Any other painful things I need to be warned about?”

“No, just some cream and a couple bandages.”

“That doesn’t sound not painful.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stan!” The engineer said, laughing as he squeezed the tube.

“I don’t know… You seem pretty sadistic.”

“Hush.” Fiddleford replied, Stanley could _hear_ the eye roll in his voice. He started to make another retort, but stopped short as his breath caught in his throat. The stinging pain was gone, replaced by a creeping cold sensation in his shoulder. It wasn’t unpleasant, in fact it was very soothing, but it certainly sobered him up. The boxer sat a little straighter.

“What did you _do_?”

“I fixed you up.” Fiddleford said simply, patting a band aid over the burn before grabbing another and repeating the process.

“I should get hurt more often.” Stanley hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but he felt much less in control of his words with Fiddleford’s hands on his back. The engineer laughed before sliding off of the bed, reaching his hands above his head as he stretched his lanky limbs.  

Stanley looked on, his pupils wide in awe. Something that had been causing him pain for weeks, that he had been too ashamed to ask for help, and Fiddleford had fixed in under five minutes. The engineer came into his room, pissed off at him, and ended up helping him. Even though the man himself was broken, he was healing others.The boxer always destroyed things and Fiddleford always fixed things; Stanley figured that’s why they worked so well together. Beyond the attraction, the shared sense of humor, their personalities clicked together.

It was a terrible and beautiful thing reacquainting himself with Fiddleford, both in how painful and how marvelous it was. The engineer wasn’t the only one meeting a new person, Stanley found himself learning more and more about the man in this way than he ever had before.

“Are you coming?”

Stanley nodded dumbly, watching Fiddleford pull open the door. The engineer looked at him expectantly.

“Oh, right. Yep, I’ll be right down!” He quickly pulled on a shirt, rushing out of the room in time to catch up with the engineer on the stairs. Stanley reached the landing, turning to thank Fiddleford for his help, when something crashed into his leg.

He looked down, bright blue eyes meeting his own as he lifted his leg up, the child wrapped around it rising as well.

“Hey there kiddo.”

“Hello Mr. Pines!” Tate’s words were muffled by his pants legs as the boy’s grip tightened. With a grin, Stanley continued to walk forward, albeit in an awkward gait, careful not to knock the boy off.

“Fidds, your son makes a surprisingly nice boot.” The boxer joked, hearing Tate’s stifled laughter as he waddled into the kitchen.

He felt a light touch on his arm, the engineer’s hand, as he stopped Stanley. The man mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Stanley muttered back, moving his leg in a feigned attempt to shake the boy off. The kid only held on tighter. “I like kids, especially this one.”

“Good,” Fiddleford said, barely able to hide his grin, “because he’s stuck to your leg forever. There’s no getting him off now.”

Turns out, the engineer was right. Tate was strong, much stronger than any six year old he had ever met. Fiddleford tried first, but it didn’t do much good, even if he knew the man wasn’t trying at all. He opted to watch Stanley suffer with a child around his calf and laugh instead of help. The boxer was afraid to use too much force on the kid, so he spent the next half hour, ambling around to get as many things done as he could with Tate still hitchhiking on his leg.

That was, until they had nothing left to do but go into the lab, which Fiddleford firmly stated it was too dangerous for kids. Come to think of it, Stanley thought, it was probably why the engineer hadn’t brought the child around more often. Before he had cleaned up Stanford’s mess, one wrong move could have made the house explode.

He had no other options. He narrowed his eyes at Tate, who in turn, gave him just as serious of a death stare. Stanley decided he would have to play dirty, and pull out his trump card: tickling.

And it had worked.

Tate had detached from his leg almost immediately, plopping onto the floor defeated. Before the child could protest, Fiddleford led him to the couch, gave him very specific instructions not to move from the room until they had returned. They both fled to the elevator, Stanley repeatedly pressing the button and the engineer slipping through the closing doors with a matter of seconds left.

They both took a moment to catch their breath, sighing in relief as the elevator click and started to lower downwards. When they locked eyes, both men burst into laughter. They had barely escaped the wrath of a six year old.

When it finally subsided, Fiddleford still quietly huffing, the engineer moved to stand next to Stanley, leaning against the wall.

“Tate’s taken quite a likin’ to you.” Fiddleford mused, looking to the man at his side.

“I’m glad, even if we barely scraped by with our lives back there. Is that what parenthood is like?”

“Mostly.”

The mechanical whine of the elevator filled their quiet passage. One of the more recent changes he had noticed, were that the silences had become more comfortable. Neither had to make an effort to speak in order for them to just enjoy being in each other’s presence. He felt more weight press against his side and glanced down. Was Fiddleford _leaning_ on him? _Fuck_ , he thought, suddenly feeling nervousness settle back into his gut.

“I think I could deal with that. Tate isn’t the toughest thing I’ve ever fought.” The boxer boasted, trying to ease his heart back into a normal rate.

“What holds the top position?”

“Hmmm,” Stanley hummed aloud as he thought, “The zombies were pretty tough. Just because of the sheer numbers.”

“Zombies?”

The engineer looked absolutely perplexed.

“Ah, you know…” He motioned to Fiddleford’s cheek, where the faint scar from the undead remained. The engineer blinked in conclusion.

“You haven’t got memories of that back yet? It was awful. It’s just where you got this thing.” Stanley turned to face the man fully, his hand cupping Fiddleford’s cheek as he dragged his thumb across the pale line.

Fiddleford froze as he felt the building ache in his head, his vision going white momentarily. Sometimes memories came flooding back in a linear fashion, and other times it came in a rapid succession of images that didn’t always fit together by the end. This was one of the latter times.

Glass shattering, Stanford on the floor, lavender tea, hands along the curve of his back, dark sheets that were not his own.

Fiddleford gasped, stumbling back. Stanley quickly snatched his hand away from the engineer.

“I’m sorry!” The boxer hurriedly sputtered, eyes pooling with worry. Fiddleford gulped, pushing himself away from the wall he hadn’t realized he had retreated against. He watched as Stanley tried to reach out again, before the boxer thought better of it, and quickly shoved his hand into his pocket.

“I-It’s alright.” Fiddleford said a little shakily. “Just… Just my head.”

“Memories?” Stanley said so defeated that the engineer wanted to reach out and hug him. Fiddleford’s throat tightened. _Where had that come from?_

Luckily, the elevator dinged, and the door slide open just in time for him to avoid the question. Fiddleford rushed out, leaving Stanley to stand alone.

\--

Stanley had a plan.

Contrary to popular belief, he _could_ think things out before he acted. Just… not in his romantic pursuits. He could fake his way through those with enough false confidence and jokes, but Fiddleford deserved something better.

He wanted the engineer back. There were too many times during the day where he would go to touch the man, or hold him close for a moment, only to realize that he _couldn’t_. The boxer certainly enjoyed what they had now, a close friendship, but he missed what they had been. His heart ached for more, just a little more contact, a little more closeness, and then maybe his heart would stop beating so fast and his stomach would stop twisting, and maybe his feelings would be satisfied.

So he had hatched a plan. He wouldn’t change himself a bit; he didn’t want to trick or manipulate the engineer, far from it. What he would do though, was repeat as many things possible from the past that had lead them to their previous circumstances. What had he done exactly to win over the man the first time, he hadn’t had a clue, but he was bound and determined to figure it out.

Sadly, many of the times the boxer ever saw himself as useful was when they fought a monster, and he wasn’t going to blatantly lead the engineer into danger just so he could prove himself. So that eliminated what he considered his best trait: punching.

Stanley stared down at the book he was supposed to be reading, hearing Fiddleford mutter things to himself across the room. The boxer sighed. He could just tell him. _No,_ he berated himself, _that would be stupid_. There was no telling where the man was in terms of remembering their relationship. He was far enough along to consider Stanley a close and trusted friend, but even if he did remember the whole truth, who’s to say that he wouldn’t hate the boxer for abandoning him when he needed help the most?

Plus, he had no idea how comfortable the man was with his sexuality. It had taken Stanley years, _years_ , to come to terms with his own and overcome the internalized self-hatred. If he was to outright confess, the man could push him away altogether.

His shoulders slumped. It was hopeless. He might as well enjoy the days he had left before Fiddleford remembered and hated him.

“Stanley?” The man couldn’t help how his heart leapt when the other called his name. “Could you come here for a moment?”

The boxer obliged, scooting his chair back from the desk and heading towards the other side of the room. The portal remained dark, unmoving. Its etched symbols unnerving in the dim light. It was hard to believe that beyond this machine, his brother was trapped.

 Fiddleford poked his head out from behind the mainframe, raising the wielding mask off of his face.

“I believe I’ve managed to fix the gyration joint.”

“That what?”

Fiddleford deadpanned.

“The part that makes it spin.”

“Oh.”

“Anyways,” The engineer continued, looking a little brighter, “That seemed to be one of the main problems. According to the blueprint, if it can’t spin it doesn’t correctly open up a rift. So all that’s left now is to fiddle with that one broken motor. After that we’ll have to do a quick test run. But, I think we can get Stanford back in… Maybe two weeks at least.”

“Are you serious?” Stanley exclaimed, his crooked grin spreading across his lips. Fiddleford returned a more tired smile.

“Yes. But we have much more to d--” The engineer was cut off as he was pulled into a tight hug.

“ _Thankyouthankyouthankyou!_ ” Stanley muttered into the smaller man’s shoulder. He was just starting to regret being so bold with Fiddleford, when the man started to laugh. The boxer, he decided, was like a giant dog. When he felt affection, he had to physically show it.

“You’re welcome.” The engineer said, before pushing his hands against Stanley’s chest. “Now get off.” Stanley rather reluctantly pulled himself away, beaming down at the smaller man. He caught a glimpse of Fiddleford’s face reddening as the engineer turned away to hide it.

“Oh, and could you do me a favor? I haven’t checked on Tate in a while. Could you go upstairs real quick and just see if he’s gotten himself into any trouble?”

“Of course.” Stanley nodded.

“Anything for you, Fidds.”

\--

Tate stared out the window into the freshly fallen show, his small palms pressed against the icy pane. The boy’s breath fogged over the glass as warm air met cold; he frantically wiped at it with a sleeve.

There was a woman, barely visible against the tree line. Her long white dress seemed to melt with the snow at her feet, dark hair mixing with the tangled branches behind her. And from her mouth came the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. The child dared not blink, in fear she would vanish, along with her odd song.

“Whatcha doin’ there, kiddo?” He turned at Stanley’s friendly voice, the look of curiosity becoming glee. If he had learned anything, the presence of the boxer meant fun.

“Listening to the singing.” He stated simply, glancing back to the woman. To his delight, she was still there, and this time she waved at him. No, not waved, beckoned.

“Heh, yeah, the birds are pretty great. Kind of annoying in the morning, though. Out in Jersey when it gets cold, they mostly migrate, but some seem to stay around here all year long.”

“No, not birds. The lady!”

“Lady?” Stanley raised his eyebrows. He crouched down to the boy’s height, looking out the window at what the child was so eagerly pointing at. The boxer squinted hard, but still, he couldn’t make out anything but snow and trees.

“Kid, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Can’t you see her?”

Stanley put the back of his hand against Tate’s forehead.

“Hmm, well you don’t have a fever, so you’re not hallucinating. Maybe you just need glasses.”

“No, I see--”

“C’mon.” He hooked two hands underneath the boy’s armpits and lifted him up. Tate’s shocked squeak turned into a laugh. “Let’s go back to the couch, you’re waaay too cold from standing next to the window for too long. Fiddleford will have my ass-- _I mean_ , my butt if I let you get sick.”

Stanley dropped the child onto the couch, Tate giggling all the while. He grabbed a folded blanket from his chair and covered the wiggling boy up. The boxer grinned when he saw the fluff of brown hair pop back up.

“So,” He clapped his hands together. “Do you want something to eat or to drink? We got… uh…” He went over the very short list of child appropriate drinks he had in the fridge. “We have water. I could make you a sandwich.”

“No, thanks.” Tate said, eyes focusing back on the window. Something about the child’s interest in the woman who wasn’t there gave him goosebumps. With a shudder, he flipped on the television so the kid could be distracted a bit longer.

“Okay. I’m gonna go make myself one then. Tell me if you change your mind.” He flashed the kid one more smile before sauntering into the kitchen.

 _So that was weird_ , he immediately thought to himself. He gave Tate a quick glance over his shoulder, finding him relaxed in the sofa, laughing at the TV. The boxer shrugged, directing his attention to the coffee machine and flipping it back on. _I guess kids are just weird like that._

He had certainly grown a soft spot for the kid in the recent weeks, not that he would admit it. Fiddleford didn’t bring him to the Shack often, it was too dangerous if they didn’t keep a watchful eye on him, but when the boy’s visiting weeks coincided with the days Stanley would hang around Fiddleford’s apartment, they had a good time.

More than often Tate begged him to stay until the kid had tuckered himself out. But he didn’t mind staying late into the night, he got to spend more time with Fiddleford that way. Plus, it was nice to have someone look up to him in the way Tate did. The kid regarded the boxer as if he were some type of superhero, and Stanley could _definitely_ get used to that.

He hastily slathered mayonnaise onto the bread before slapping it down on top of the rest of his sandwich.

“Hey kid, are you sure you don’t want anything? I could make a grocery run real quick and pick you up some juice or somethin’.” He took a bite out of his sandwich as he waited for an answer.

No response.

“Tate?” He asked a little louder, sticking his head through the doorway. The boy had vanished from the couch. All that remained was the ambient laugh track from the television playing to an empty living room. Stanley gulped, feeling his heart quicken. _It’s probably nothing_ , he reassured himself. _The kid probably just wandered off upstairs._

“Taaate? Fidds said you shouldn’t leave the living room, and you probably shouldn’t disobey him or--” His voice caught in his throat as he rounded the corner.

The front door was ajar.

Stanley quickly threw it open, the desperate pounding of his heart deafening against his eardrums.

There was no sign of the kid except for the small tracks, joined later by larger ones, in the snow.

“Oh, fuck.” Stanley muttered to himself, his hand flying up to grip the side of his head in disbelief.

“Hey Stan?” He heard Fiddleford call from the bottom of the stairs, “You’ve been up there a while, is everything okay?”

_“Oh, fuck.”_

\--

Tate’s eyes continued to flutter closed, before jerking back open. The process was agonizing; all he wanted to do was sleep. The cold had kept him awake for only so long, and now he found himself leaning against the woman’s arm as she guided him.

“I’m tired.” He said, casting his big blue eyes in the woman’s direction. She did not return the glance, only continued to smile stiffly.

“When we get there, you can sleep or do whatever else your heart desires.”

“H-How long?” He muttered. The boy put a hand to his chapped lips, stinging in the cold. He wished the woman would have let him put on a coat instead of so fiercely going against his idea.

“Very soon, my child. Don’t be impatient. Just think, when you get there, we can do anything you want: adventures, treasure hunts, swimming. That’s much better than being cooped up in a room in that stuffy old house right?”

“Yeah, but…”

The woman whirled around, her wet hair flinging droplets of water into the snow. She held onto Tate’s hand tighter, nails digging into the side of his palm. She eyed the forest with intensity.

“Y-You’re hurting me.”

“Be quiet.” Her voice lost its ethereal tone, gaining a gravelly edge. She retracted her claws, but only slightly, as if to show she was still the one in charge. Tate gazed around the clearing with wide eyes. It was just snow and trees, he had no idea what she was so readily looking for. He turned his eyes to the woman; a knowing grin spread across her gaunt face as she eyed the landscape, fangs poking out from behind her blue lips.

The woman took small, silent steps forward.

A stick snapped beyond the trees.

“I-I want to go home.”

“Shhh, child. We can go home very soon.”

\--

“How did he just wander out the door?” Fiddleford snapped as he pulled his coat closer around himself. Stanley tried not to crack a smile as the puffy fabric engulfed the engineer’s thin frame. He quickly dismissed it, upset at himself for even thinking about grinning now. This was serious, damn it.

“I don’t know, he just did.”

“Weren’t you there? Did you not notice him open the front door and waltz out into the forest?”

“I turned around for two seconds and I didn’t see him leave!”

“You were supposed to be checking in on him and he left on your watch.” The engineer gritted through his teeth as he waded through the ankle deep snow. Stanley tightened his grip on the weapon he had brought from the shack: the fire iron. He had told the engineer of Tate’s ramblings of a woman, and the man had insisted the bring weapons. 

“I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I said ‘Hey, I know what’s hilarious, getting children lost in the cold and dangerous forest!’”

Fiddleford exhaled very slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth to respond.

The engineer froze in his tracks.

“I heard him.”

“Huh?” Stanley glanced over his shoulder.

“I _heard_ him.”

Fiddleford bolted, sprinting as fast as his feet would allow him. The cool wind stung his face as he dashed into the forest, ignoring the boxer’s calls for him to “slow down” and instead craning to hear the hushed conversation he had heard moments ago. He crashed through prickly evergreen branches, stopping once again in his tracks as he saw his son.

He opened his mouth to yell for him, but fell short, spotting the tall, looming woman guiding him. And as if she had sensed him, she halted as well.

“H-How long?” He heard his son ask weakly, the engineer’s heart hammering in his ears. The woman was a monster, he knew it in his gut. There was something off, something uncanny about the way she stood, about her form overall like she couldn’t replicate one vital human trait.

Fear kicked in, his brain demanding fight or flight. Fiddleford’s throat closed up. He needed to move, needed to get his son and run far, far away.

“Very soon, my child. Don’t be impatient. Just think, when you get there, we can do anything you want: adventures, treasure hunts, swimming. That’s much better than being cooped up in a room in that stuffy old house right?”

Her voice was like ice and he couldn’t make his legs move from their dip in the snow. He trembled, unsure whether it was his panic or he had just become aware of how cold it really was.

“Yeah, but…”

His son’s hesitant voice cut through him. Fiddleford was going to get him killed, or himself killed, or maybe both of them because he had been reckless, and then too much of a coward to fix his mistakes.

The woman began to turn. Fiddleford held his breath.

Stanley barreled into him, pinning the engineer against a tree and out of the monster’s line of sight. He managed to hide them both just as the woman whipped around.

“What are you- mph!” The boxer shoved a palm over the smaller’s mouth before shooting him a fierce look. Fiddleford got the message: be still and keep your wits about you. The engineer held back a frustrated sigh, how was he supposed to keep cool? His mind was going a million miles a minute and his son was about to be eaten and he had been too scared to do anything and Stanley was close enough to take away his breath.

Fiddleford dug his nails into the bark, searching the boxer’s face for any signs of emotion as Stanley leaned to get a better view of the situation. He took a deep breath before locking eyes with the engineer.

“Do you know what that thing is? We need to know how to take it down.” Stanley spoke steadily, his brow furrowed.

“Some kind of fae? I know it was a tall woman but I-,” He looked away, glossing over the part where he had been paralyzed with fear, “I-I didn’t get a good look at her. But she’s definitely not human.”

“She’s all waterlogged, I know that. Now, I can’t see for shit, but I’m pretty sure she has sea weed in her hair. And trust me, I know sea weed; I grew up on a beach. So maybe she’s a mermaid or-?”

Fiddleford covered his mouth when the realization hit him, his blood running cold as journal pages flashed behind his eyes.

“A kelpie. She’s a kelpie. They-” He gulped, feeling his stomach churn. “They drown children. She’s trying to _drown_ Tate.”

Stanley took a step back, face flooding with worry before being replaced by utter malice. His fist clenched around the fire iron he had been holding.

“Fiddleford, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I’m going to cause a distraction, easy-peasy. Work your way in a circle until you’re behind this kelpie thing and be sure to stay out of sight. You’re gonna run in, scoop up Tate, and get the hell out of here. Find your way back to the shack, it’s directly east of here so just keep going to opposite of the Sun if you get lost. Stay safe, okay?”

Stanley took another step back; Fiddleford rushed forward, grabbing his coat’s lapels before he could go any further.

“What are you g-going to do?”

“I’m going to fucking kill that monster.”

“Please,” Fiddleford pleaded after a beat, giving the man’s hand a squeeze as he met his brown eyes, “be careful.” Stanley softened, the lines across his forehead disappearing as he gave a short nod. He let go of the engineers hand before stepping out from behind the tree, slinging the fire iron to rest on his shoulder.

“Go now, Fidds. Save your son. I got this.”

The engineer gave him one final concerned glance before making his way as quickly and as quietly as he could to a row of wild shrubs. If he could duck behind there, they would fully hide away his path to the kelpie.

Fiddleford tore his eyes away from the ground to look back at said monster, still frozen in place as it conversed with his son. The engineer heard a crack, almost deafening to him. He looked underfoot at the stick he had stepped on and froze.

The kelpie looked straight at him.

“Hey ugly!” Stanley bellowed from the other side of the clearing. The kelpie’s lip curled as it whipped around to snarl at the boxer, letting go of the boy’s hand. Stanley slowly approached the pair, one foot after the other like a predator on the prowl.

“Mr. Pines!” Tate yelped, eyes shining as he stared at his hero. The kelpie’s arm flew out before the kid before he could run towards the boxer.

“Don’t move!” She snarled, before speaking in a sickly sweet tone. “You don’t want to go back there do you? It was boring and you were all alone. I’ll take care of you, now. You don’t think this man actually cares, _do you?_ ”

“Lying to children? Oh, that’s low. But hey, I can’t judge.” The boxer made his move, finally closing the distance and swinging the fire iron at the kelpie’s head. In its final moments, it flashed him a toothy smirk, before it evaporated completely. Tate screamed, falling backwards into the snow.

Stanley helped the boy back to his feet before looking for his vanished opponent. _That’s all?_ He thought, eyes scanning the snow.

“Oh thank God, you’re safe!” Fiddleford exclaimed as he rushed out of the bushes, scooping up his son. He held the boy close to his chest as Tate hugged onto his neck. The engineer turned to the larger man.

“Is- Is it gone?” Stanley seemed just as befuddled as he was.

“I think so? I’m not so sure whether I actually hit the _darned,_ ” He quickly corrected his language in front of the child, “thing or not. But I don’t see--”

He watched Fiddleford’s eyes widen, the way he took a step back, saw the fear even before the engineer had verbally warned him. Stanley moved, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Teeth sank into his bicep from behind, wet hair dripping murky water onto his neck. Stanley hissed in pain, snatching the woman by her wet locks and tugging her free of his flesh before throwing her to the ground.

She didn’t seem the least bit upset, only bemused. The kelpie licked her lips, red fading to pale blue. Stanley moved himself between the woman on the ground and the other two. The engineer looked on in shock as the snow around the man became speckled with scarlet.

The monster evaporated again, leaving only a small puddle of water where her body had once been. Stanley pressed a hand into the puncture wounds, blood welling from under his fingers. He gulped, watching as the puddle began to move, streaming past him.

“Fidds,” The boxer spoke, keeping his eyes locked onto the water, “get out of here. Now.”

“But y-you’re hurt--!”

“Take Tate and run. Go.” He said through gritted teeth. Fiddleford tottered uneasily from foot to foot for a moment before solemnly nodding his head and pushing back through the shrubs, carrying the boy with him.

The kelpie’s form reemerged slowly, the water dragging skywards in a spin of bubbles before taking on her next form: four, long, hoofed legs coupled with the bulky body and snout told Stanley what he needed to know before she had even assumed a solid shape.

The kelpie pounded her hoof onto the ground, her newly formed black fur contrasting with the white of the snow, her mane glided through the wind as if it were nipping the air.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

She snorted, before rearing up and charging. Stanley stood his ground, steadying the fire iron in his hands. He aimed for the head of the beast.

The boxer swung.

The kelpie lowered its long neck, barely ducking under the arc of the makeshift weapon. But Stanley wasn’t going to let her slip through his fingers that easily. He had missed; but this time he had accounted for the probability of a mistake. The boxer would _not_ give the kelpie a chance to go after Tate again.

He leapt for the horse, a hand catching onto her neck.

He felt himself fall before his shoulder snapped, catching himself before he hit the ground. The boxer’s gasped at the wrenching pain blooming under his burn. He tried to control his breathing, breath catching in his throat on every gallop, sending more pain into his arm. The boxer opened his tightly shut eyes, horror flooding through him at how precariously close he was to being stampeded to death; his body half dragged on the ground, the kelpie’s hooves beating far too close for comfort.

Stanley tried to let go.

But the kelpie wouldn’t let him go free. He glanced up, realizing he hadn’t even been holding on, his palm lad flat against the monster’s neck. Stanley tried to pry himself off, but to no avail.

He heard Stanford’s words from long ago, repeating in his ears.

_They like to show off how beautiful they are as horses, enticing children to pet them. But, when they do, their hands get stuck to the fur. In few cases, the child is able to escape, but only after removing their hand or fingers. Otherwise, the kelpies pulls them under. Fascinating, right?_

_No, not fascinating, Ford!_ The boxer yelled in his mind, pulling frantically at his hand.

He was stuck.

\--

“What are you doing?” Tate shrieked as he watched from over Fiddleford’s shoulder as Stanley faced off with the woman who had tricked him. His father’s grip on him tightened.

“I’m taking you to safety.” Fiddleford said, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead as he rushed through the forest. He certainly wasn’t as athletic as Stanley, but seeing his son in peril had given him the shot of adrenaline he needed to make it through. The boy over his shoulder struggled, pushing on his shoulder as he tried to defy his father’s clutches.

“Stop.” The engineer muttered sternly, slowing his pace. He didn’t have time to slow down. If Stanley didn’t manage to handle the kelpie situation, then they were desert.

“You stop! We can’t leave him back there.”

“Tate…” He spoke slowly, coming to a halt altogether now that they had put some distance between themselves and the brawl. “He told us to leave. Stanley wanted to save you.”

“But who’s going to save him?” The boy pushed himself back, looking up at his father with big, watery eyes. Fiddleford looked away.

“There’s nothing we can do to help him.”

“There’s always something you can do to help someone!”

He watched as his father’s resolve started to weaken.

“Dad… Please.” Cue the voice break. Fiddleford fell silent, biting his lip in contemplation. With a sigh, he placed his son on the ground. The engineer knelt down, getting on eye level with the boy.

“Tate, I need you to be serious for a moment.” The engineer spoke swiftly, mouth set in a thin, determined line as he took off his scarf and wrapped it around his son’s neck. “Stay here. Don’t move from this spot or else you’re grounded.” He unzipped his puffy coat before pulling it over his son’s shoulders, the ends dropping past the kid’s knees. “And I mean it. Stay. Here.”

He stood upright with a gulp.

“I’ll be right back.”

And with that, Fiddleford rushed off, back into the forest.

\--

The kelpie had started aiming for trees now, knowing good and well Stanley was doomed to hold on. He had dropped his weapon long ago when he had first reached out to catch the monster. Now he had no way to defend himself, and nothing to do but hang limply and desperately try to navigate his body somewhere out of reach of sharp rocks and trees, and away from the crushing hooves.

Suddenly the kelpie stopped her rampage, halting in her tracks. Stanley let out a sigh of relief for the moment of solace, the weight taken off his arm.

“H-Hey you big- you big jerk!” Stanley leaned his head back, the world flipped upside down with his skewed vision, but he knew that man anywhere.

“Put him down.” Fiddleford commanded, launching another rock at the kelpie. It missed its target by a mile, but the beast seemed offended enough. That was all he needed. The kelpie raked a hoof over the ground, moving into a trot, and then a full gallop towards the engineer.

“Stanley!” He screamed as the horse sped closer. “The fire iron!” Stanley’s eyes trailed up, down, he wasn’t really sure which way, but towards the ground where Fiddleford had been pointing.

In the snow rapidly approaching them, like a beacon of hope, lay the sharp weapon.

Stanley readied his free hand.

He had one shot at this, or the kelpie would ensnare the engineer as well and drag them both off to their dooms.

He took a deep breath and darted his arm forward, feeling his fingers wrap around the cold metal.

Stanley flipped it in his hand. Fiddleford held his breath as the distance between himself and the kelpie became a few short feet.

The boxer pulled the tire iron back, and stabbed it upward through the kelpie’s chest.

He felt it slip through the beast’s ribcage.

A shriek sounded from her mouth before an ear splitting pop. Water burst in every direction, soaking both men from head to toe in the droplets.

And suddenly, Stanley found himself on the ground. Reality was still incredibly jarring, he felt his head spin even with his eyelids shut tightly. Every muscle in his body ached.

The snow next to him shifted.

“Stanley?” He heard the engineer speak very softly. The boxer could hardly distinguish if this was real life or if he had hit his head too hard. Hands came to rest gently on either side of his face.

“Oh my God, please tell me you’re not dead. Stan?” The smaller man’s voice wavered, finger’s curling around the boxer’s jaw.

Stanley cracked an eye open, finding Fiddleford leaning above him, wet hair plastered against his forehead.

“Nope, sorry. I’m dead.” He sat up slowly and rolled his injured shoulder. He turned to the engineer, giving him a crooked grin. “Looks like you’re gonna have to patch me up, though.” Fiddleford stared blankly at him for a moment before throwing himself against the man, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck.

The boxer blinked in surprise, his hands slowly coming to rest on the smaller’s back.

“Stop throwing yourself into danger for the sake of other people. Otherwise you’re going to give me a heart attack. You’re important too, you know?” Fiddleford said as he pulled back, wiping the water off of his glasses with the hem of his shirt. Before the boxer had time to give his snarky reply, another voice interrupted him.

“Aw, did I miss all of the punching?”

Stanley quickly pulled his hands off the engineer as Tate approached them, his coat sleeves hanging way past the tips of his fingers.

“What did I say about moving?” Fiddleford asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“Not too… But I had a good reason!”

“And what was that?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Pines punch a monster!”

“Seems like a good enough excuse for me.” Stanley laughed, slowly and painfully getting to his feet. Fiddleford helped steady him, grabbing onto one of the boxer’s arms when he started to teeter.

“Alright, alright,” Fiddleford sighed, taking his son’s hand. “It’s starting to get dark. Let’s head back to the Shack before we get stuck here for the night. But don’t think you aren’t getting a stern talkin’ to when we get home, mister.”

Tate groaned, dragging his small shoes through the snow as they started to make their way back home. Stanley’s pain was still present, but it had lulled into a dull ache one he had shifted his attention. Instead, he focused on the man at his side, and how the engineer didn’t take his hand off his arm the entire walk.  

**\--**

“I think he’s asleep.” Stanley whispered, eyeing the small boy curled into a bundle in the armchair.

It was 11 o’clock. It had taken them a couple hours to calm down from the incident, and a couple more for Fiddleford to patch up the boxer. The wounds weren’t too drastic; nothing a bit of iodine and disinfectant couldn’t fix. After the long day, it was no wonder the kid was all tuckered out.

“Goodness,” Fiddleford muttered, setting down his mug on the table and glancing back to the man across from him, “have we been talking for that long?” The boxer nodded happily, taking their cups to the sink.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstay my welcome, Stanley.”

“You’re not overstaying anything.” He rolled his eyes. “You used to live here, I wouldn’t care if you stayed here 24/7. That being said…” He motioned to Tate’s sleeping form. “He looks too peaceful to move. Plus you gotta do that whole, carry the cranky kid to the car and then back out routine. Why don’t you two just stay here for the night? I got a couple of spare rooms.”

“I-I don’t know…” Fiddleford rung his hands together, eyes flicking nervously away from the boxer.

“It’s really no trouble. I like having you around. Plus, we could watch crummy TV programs until you got tired.”

The engineer perked up a bit.

“Okay.”

And, in classic Fiddleford fashion, the man had fallen asleep thirty minutes into the first movie. And it was a particularly _awful_ one too, one the boxer knew he could get a couple of laughs out of the other man with him poking fun at it. He sighed, looking from the two sleeping people in his living room. _Like father like son._ Of course, another good thing about Fiddleford was that when he got tired, he got cuddly. And Stanley hadn’t complained one bit when the engineer had conked out on his shoulder, and then sleepily moved himself into resting his head on the boxer’s lap.

He smiled, running his fingers very carefully through the man’s blond hair. Fiddleford sighed happily in his sleep; Stanley lived for that noise of quiet contentment. It was almost as if they were back in old times, as if nothing had happened. 

“Do you love him?”

Stanley stiffened at the question, eyes finding the source of the voice in the darkness: Tate. The boxer took a deep breath, cursing himself for getting too wrapped up in things to notice the child waking.

“That’s… a tough question, kid.”

“Are you going to marry my dad?”

“That’s an _even tougher_ question. I mean, it’s kind of up to him.” _And the government_ , he didn't say. 

Tate starred at him for a moment, unblinking. Then, he crawled off the chair, dragging his blanket along the floor as he made the way to the couch. He settled on the other side of the boxer.

“A long time ago, I wanted him and Mom to make up.” The boy started, Stanley gulped, prepared for the worst. “I missed being a family. But I know it would be a bad thing for them. Mom said,” The boy paused, trying to think of his Mother’s exact words. “Mom said he’s ‘too far gone’. I- I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think they love each other now. But if you love him, then I don’t mind.”

Stanley gawked, trying to take it all in. He nervously slicked back his bangs, turning to the child beside him.

“You wouldn’t… care if I got into a relationship with your Dad?”

Tate shook his head, grinning up at the man.

“No. You’re silly and funny. I think we would have fun with you.”

Stanley whistled, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well, damn kid.” The boy giggled at his vulgarity. “You should have told me sooner. Just do me a favor and don’t tell him, okay?”

Tate zipped his lips.

“Okay. It’ll be a secret!”

A smile overcame Stanley, spreading so wide the corners of his mouth hurt.

“Thanks, Tate.”

“You’re welcome!” The boy exclaimed, snuggling into Stanley’s side. He pulled his legs up around himself, and his blanket off the floor before shutting his eyes.

Stanley waited until he could hear the child’s faint snoring, and Fiddleford’s slow breaths before he moved. The boxer leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes. In all his years, it always seemed like he was losing family, from being kicked out at a younger age to his mishap with Ford. And now, with the portal close to completion and with the two asleep on him, it seemed he was finally gaining some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I made this chapter really long whoops. I cut as much as I could and still, it's super long. Maybe it will make up for the fact that finals are soon and my updates will be much less frequent. Just a warning, the hiatus is ever looming. 
> 
> It's gonna get very serious in a few chapters, so have fun with this lull in comotion as Fiddleford finds his place again for as long as you can. 
> 
> Anyways, as always, leave a kudos and comment if you enjoyed. I love hearing feedback from all of you! Thank you for reading.


	16. No More Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford has to save his career by mingling with the world's worst family: The Northwests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the infamous Northwest party/dancing cliche combo that makes its way into every Gravity Falls Fanfic. What can I say, I'm a sucker for cliches. Plus, these two really needed a break, don't you agree? 
> 
> Also!! This fic has hit 200 kudos and that makes me beyond happy! Thank you all for supporting me this far. 
> 
> The warnings for this chapter are: alcoholism and homophobia. No violence this time.

Stanley whistled when he stepped out of the car, leaning backwards to take in the full view of the mansion. Fiddleford got out of the El Diablo slower, deliberately extending his time until he had to go inside. _Just a quick hello, and then we’ll be out_ , he told himself for the fourth time. The boxer glanced at him over the hood of the car.     

“Are you sure we can’t steal anything from this place? I don’t think they would notice.”

The engineer didn’t laugh at his joke, rather he frowned, looking deep in thought as he headed towards the stairs. Stanley jogged to catch up with him, continuing to throw glances at the other man as if he could get a clue to why he was so upset.

Fiddleford paused at the top of the marble stairs, slowing his step. The boxer could hear piano drifting through the open door as the engineer finally returned his stares.

“Okay, remember that you’re Stanford Pines.”

“I’ve been living the part for a month now, I think I got it.”

“You’re an intelligent scientist who’s not allowed to talk about his top secret projects.”

“Fidds, I know. Listen, I’ve got the part down--”

“I’m your co-worker and--”

“Fiddleford!” He said a little louder, cutting the babbling engineer off. “I got it. There’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s just a party, I’m not going to mess everything up, okay?” Stanley lightly placed his hand on the small of the man’s back in reassurance.

“O-okay.” Fiddleford muttered before taking a deep breath.

He really, _really_ didn’t want to do this. The only reason he was forced to was because his reputation was on the line.

Word spreads around town fast when it turns out you have _two_ genius scientists living in your mix. The Northwests had contacted him only a short time after the portal incident, when he was still trying to sort out his life out after the first memory gun blast. He had needed money. They had employed him. Mostly, they wanted him to build an underground safe room. Their son, Preston, had just turned 8, and they were experiencing something Fiddleford like to call the “What Ifs”. What if someone robs us? What if there’s a bomb? What if precious little Preston is in danger and we are unable to help him? And, because they were rich, they didn’t have to deal with it in the quiet, anxious way most parents did. So they employed him to build a bunker. Stanley was right when he had called them snobs, but they were snobs who put food on his table and help paid for his apartment.

This whole mishap had started when Fiddleford had begun taking extensive time off work. They had reacted badly, as they wanted to get their project done as quickly as possible, but truly they could have completed the entire thing without the engineer’s assistance. All he really did after he had finished the schematics was watch construction workers do their thing and occasionally make minor tweaks. He tried to tell them this, but the Northwests only seemed to grow more agitated. Finally, they demanded to know what he needed so much time off for, and he had responded how Stanley’s had told him to.

_“My friend, the visiting researcher, is back in town and has asked me to assist him with his groundbreaking experiment.”_

They had sobered up after that, Fiddleford guessed because they liked the idea of having another scientist in town to do their trivial work. They were greedy people, and advancements in technology was something they wanted before anyone else could snatch it up; they wanted to be the first. They continued to drop hints about bringing _‘Stanford’_ by, and when that wasn’t straight forward enough, they sent a party invitation.

Fiddleford glanced towards his companion, the boxer running a hand through his newly cut hair as he waited for Fiddleford to work up the courage to walk through the doors. The suit the man was so readily complaining about was pretty standard, English cut coupled with that terrible, awful, adorable bowtie. Stanley raised an eyebrow as he caught the other starring.

“Pretty snazzy, eh?”

Fiddleford nodded mutely, still getting used to the disappearance of fluffy bangs and a mullet, the lack of which seemed to put emphasis on the man’s jawline and eyes. The engineer’s stomach did a thrilling flip. He told himself he had seen Stanley with more ruly hair before, this was no different from when he used to slick it back. Still, the memories he had obtained seemed fuzzy and distant and uncomplete; present reality seemed much more, well, real.

“You don’t look half-bad yourself.” Stanley gestured to the engineer’s own outfit. “We’ll be the belles of the ball at this thing.”

_God, that bowtie is really awful. Bright red? Really, Stan? And crooked too._ It was really driving him nuts.

His hands had reached out to fix it before he realized what he was doing. The engineer faltered a moment, before saving face by tugging the end of the bowtie and straightening it. Fiddleford looked up, meeting Stanley’s brown eyes and warm smile. He quickly pushed himself away from the other man, distancing himself as much as he could.

“What, are you nervous or something? The party will be just fine.” The boxer crossed his arms

“That’s easy for you to say. My career’s on the line here, not to mention my reputation. If something goes haywire then the whole town will be sure to hear about it.”

“You got nothing to freak out about. I’ll be the best guest I can be and you won’t have to worry about anything. Trust me, I know how to worm my way into people’s hearts.” Fiddleford knew a little too well.

“And… maybe their wallets.”

“Do _not_ pickpocket anyone tonight, Stan.”

“I’m just joking. I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.”

Fiddleford wasn’t too sure about that.

They went through the door, Stanley giving the man holding it ajar a short wave before halting next to his companion.

The main room was larger than the entire Shack; Stanley’s mouth promptly dropped open. He heard Fiddleford mutter to a man about being “on the list”, but was entirely too focused on the enormity of the interior. The walls were lined with extravagant window panes, the ceiling stretching up and up, hanging from it was the skeletal remains of some monstrous sea creature. Reaching the end of the hall, past the center of the room which seemed to be converted into some kind of fancy dance hall, was a wooden staircase that split paths in the center.

“You’ll get used to it. Come on.” Fiddleford muttered, dragging Stanley away by the elbow. He dragged the boxer down the side of the room, passing numerous, small alcoves where groups of people stood, talking. Stanley noted the carvings in the wood, the large paintings of figureheads on the wall, but mostly because he was wondering what was the most priceless procession he could nab without getting caught.

“Hurry up.” Fiddleford said, motioning for the man to pick up the pace. “We need to find a nice place to wait out the evening so we don’t run into--”

A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard stepped out from one of the recesses. He clapped the engineer on the shoulder with one of his large hands, halting him in his tracks.

“Ah, Fiddleford! Good to have you here. I was wondering when you’d arrive. Ha, you know those genius types, always so scatterbrained.” He added the last part, feigning to cover his mouth so Fiddleford couldn’t see. The group gathered in the alcove laughed with him. He turned to Stanley next.

“Oh, and you must be the Stanford Pines I hear so much about. I’m Theodore Northwest.”

Theodore looked like a man who shouldn’t be reckoned with. He stood like he was someone important, the kind of man who rounded up a posse and went fox hunting on the weekends. In fact, judging by the strange amount of taxidermy animals on the walls, he’d say he did hunt. The air he carried about him screamed, “Rich,” and Stanley bet that that handkerchief folded nicely in the man’s pocket was worth more money than he had compiled in his life.

Stanley took his hand and firmly shook it, going over in his head what he had learned about manners from his mother so long ago.

“Please to meet you.” He paused, “You’ve heard about me?”

“Yes. Your assistant,” Fiddleford frowned at the word, “speaks of you all the time. I hear you have some paramount experiments going on in your research facility?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded his head, hoping the word ‘paramount’ meant important. He felt his heart lift a little at the idea of Fiddleford talking about him to others. “I hope he doesn’t speak of it too much. It’s all very top secret stuff. I’d love to tell you all about it, but then, of course I’d have to kill you.”

There was a beat of silence. Fiddleford wanted to put his face in his hands. Well, at least he had _tried_.  

And then Theodore Northwest burst into laughter, his colleagues hesitantly following along like a flock of sheep.

“This guy’s got backbone! I thought he’d be more reserved like you, McGucket. How did you end up working with a stick in the mud?” He addressed the last part to Stanley. The boxer could feel the uneasiness radiating off his companion.

“He’s my best friend. And he gets the job done, so that’s a bonus.” Stanley forced a grin. Okay, so Mr. Northwest wasn’t the kindest of people, and Stanley especially hated the deprecating manner he was speaking to Fiddleford in, but he was certainly bold. Fiddleford cleared his throat, drawing their attention again.

“We just stopped by to say a quick hello, we really do have important things to do.”

“Oh no, please stay a while. Science can wait a couple of hours. Right, Dr. Pines?” The boxer glanced between the two, both looking at him expectantly. With a gulp, he nodded.

“I mean, maybe we can stay just a bit longer.”

“Excellent!” Theodore clapped him on the back, giving the two of them a toothy smile.

Fiddleford returned it before saying lightly, “Excuse us for a moment.” He grabbed Stanley’s arm, none too gently, and yanked him out of hearing range. For someone so spindly he had an iron grip.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Fiddleford hissed, crossing his arms as he glared at the boxer.

“Mingling. It’s a party, what did you expect me to do? I thought you wanted me to talk to this guy.” Stanley allowed himself to glance back at the group of men. They all seemed locked in a light-hearted debate.

“Yes! But just to show that you are ‘Stanford’ Pines and that your research is worthwhile so I live my life without the Northwests ruining it. We’re not supposed to stay and chat! You could blow your cover.”

“Fidds, we can’t just stop by for five minutes and then rush out. Just look at this place! It would come off badly; you would seem nervous.”

“I _am_ nervous. This man could ruin my whole life if he doesn’t think you’re some brilliant intellectual. He could make my life absolute hell. I’d be the laughing stock of town, no one would ever think to hire me again. I just,” He took a shaky breath before continuing.

“Once we get your brother back, you two can live on. He can publish any number of his findings and be set for life. But I’m going to have to go out and find my own thing, my own research. And if Theodore Northwest ruins my name in the scientific community, then that’s the end for me.”

Stanley felt his throat tighten. Of course Fiddleford wouldn’t want to continue staying in Gravity Falls, not after everything he had been through. Hell, the man had technically quit after glimpsing the other side of the portal. There was nothing tethering him to the town anymore. It hit him that with the portal so near to being fixed, these may be the last few weeks he ever saw the engineer again. He swallowed thickly, berating himself for getting the notion that the man would stay with him and Stanford forever.

The boxer put on a reassuring smile. If these were the last time he was ever going to see Fiddleford, then he couldn’t just mope around, he’d have to make them worthwhile.

“Fidds,” He said quietly, putting a hand on the engineer’s shoulder, “he’s not going to ruin you. It’d be more suspicious to leave as soon as we got here, and we don’t want goons sniffing around the Shack. It’ll be fine. So don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control and-- Are those mini quiches?” The boxer’s eyes grew wide as a butler passed them, holding a platter of finger food. The man paused.

“Yes. Good eye, sir. Would you like to have one?” The butler asked. Stanley’s grin widened.

“Yeah. I’m just gonna…” The boxer grabbed four, immediately shoving two into his mouth. He gave the butler a thumbs up.

“Oh my God.” Fiddleford said, mortified as he put his head in his hands.

“What?”

“For the love of-- _Don’t talk with your mouth full!_ ” The engineer groaned as the butler slowly edged away from the two of them. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need a drink.”

“There are drinks here?” Stanley piped in.

“There’s an open bar. Theodore pays for one every year--” Fiddleford answered before he could stop himself, watching as the boxer’s eyes grew larger. “No. Stanley Pines don’t you dare touch a drop of alcohol tonight.”

“Relax, Fidds.” Stanley scoffed, shoving a mini quiche into his pocket. Fiddleford prayed that no one had been watching. “I won’t go near the stuff.” He swallowed, looking out of the corner of his eye to catch Theodore Northwest eagerly awaiting their return.

“There’s nothing to worry about, we just gotta put on a show. So laugh like I just said something hilarious,” He paused as Fiddleford gave a nervous chuckle, deciding it would have to do, “and let’s go.”

Theodore smiled at them as they returned.

“So, I see he’s finished nagging at you.”

“Actually,” Stanley said a little smugly, “he was just pointing out different parts of your lovely home. Like the snack bar, and the real bar.” He flashed just as wide a smile as the comment shut Northwest up for a moment. The other had been hoping Stanley would add onto his deprecating jokes, but that had been shut down fast. The boxer decided he would smile and be civil, but shoot those leading questions down immediately.

“I couldn’t help but notice that statue over there.” Stanley changed the subject, pointing to the granite effigy placed where the staircases met. The man engraved held a gun, showing it proudly with one foot elevated on a boulder as his unseeing eyes gazed into the distance.

Theodore Northwest didn’t miss a beat, “Ah yes, that’s my great grandfather, Nathaniel Northwest. He helped build this town to what it is today after he founded it and became the mayor. And because of his amazing leadership qualities, he amassed quite the impressive amount of money, and built this manor.”

“Interesting.” The boxer replied, trying to cover up his apathetic tone. Apparently he wasn’t doing it so well, because the engineer nudged him with a shoulder.

“Well, if you really want to know,” Stanley held back a laugh as the group of Theodore’s acquaintances rolled their eyes, “it all started in the early 1800s when--”

The boxer suddenly stumbled to the side as a woman pushed her way between the engineer and him. He steadied himself, staring at his attacker and wondering exactly _how in the hell did she run so fast in that high of heels_. Her hair was held upright in a tight bun, a single, dark ringlet twirling beside her ear. Her face was thin, her cheekbones high, and small wrinkles above her mouth suggested that she smiled often and forcefully.

“Theo, dear, this party is a drag. Kathleen had the gall to tell me that my dress was periwinkle instead of lilac. Ha!” She scoffed, pearl bracelet jingling as she threw up a hand like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Ah, Marianne,” Mr. Northwest, quickly wrapped an arm around the woman and spun her to face the two men, “you haven’t met our newest guest! This is Dr. Stanford Pines, he’s the man who runs the lab on the outskirts of town with Fiddleford.”

She nodded blearily, her half lidded eyes giving away the fact she had had just a bit too much to drink. If he had to sleep beside Theodore Northwest, Stanley thought to himself, he would be drinking too.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Pines.” She held out her hand; Stanley shook it, wondering if he could slip off her rings without being noticed. Marianne Northwest gave a small wave to Fiddleford, who returned it, looking more cheerful. He opened his mouth to reply but Theodore cut him short.

“Fiddleford, I know you think this party’s a bore too, why don’t you and my darling, Mary, go run off. Go make her life interesting, will you?”

The engineer looked less than thrilled, and that was an understatement. But before he could shut the man down, Marianne was already bouncing and clapping her hands together.

“Yes! Please do, Fiddleford. You know how these _brutes_ are.”

Fiddleford glanced Stanley’s way; the boxer returned him a reassuring nod. It would do him good to get out of the company of Theodore Northwest, even if he couldn’t leave the building. And besides, the boxer could handle himself.

With a gulp, the engineer nodded.

“Okay, but just for a second.” With a squeal, Marianne dragged him away by an arm. Stanley covered his mouth, trying not to laugh.

Theodore elbowed him good naturedly.

“Now that the old ball and chain is away, we can finally enjoy this get together. Come, join my friends and I at our table.” He made a wide, extravagant gesture to the inside of the alcove to the long table nestled inside.

Theodore ushered them to their seats, placing himself at the head of the table and directing Stanley to sit at his right side. He snapped his fingers and in an instant two butlers were there to accompany him, pouring merlot into lavish wine glasses imprinted with the insignia “NW”.

“Gentlemen,” He called as he clinked his glass with a fork. “Let’s continue with what we were discussing before Dr. Pines entered our midst. Er, what exactly was that again?”

“The economy.” Called a man whose blond hair was an absolute tragedy.

“Ah yes, the economy.”

Never had there been two words more capable of making Stanley zone out. It was his belief that those two words could cure even the worst of insomnia. The boxer sipped his wine, the words of the men at the table muffled in his ears as he scanned the crowd.

For the first time in a long time, he cursed himself for not wearing glasses. The boxer had to violently squint to make out any of the faces among the crowd. None of them were the bespectacled engineer he had been searching for. Finally, at the sound of sharp, throaty laughter, he turned his head. Marianne Northwest was hunched over near the chocolate fountain, half hanging off Fiddleford as she giggled.

Bingo, he had found him.

Something about the scene made his gut twist. No, he was certainly not jealous, he told himself, hand clenching tighter around the wine glass. He most certainly did not get jealous about people, especially not to the point where he had driven Carla McCorkle’s new boyfriend’s van off a cliff and--

Oh shit.

He was jealous.

Theodore Northwest cleared his throat, snapping the boxer back into focus.

“Stanford, what’s your input?” The boxer raised his eyebrows in confusion; Theodore added, “About the homeless problem we were just discussing?”

“Oh!” Stanley glanced around the table. He had enough of an experience with being homeless for 6 years to have formed an opinion on that, but, as he glanced around the table of rich, powerful businessmen, he wasn’t sure it was one they would agree on. “Well, I… Uh-”

Luckily, the question was directed away from him as another man found his stuttering to be the perfect time to swoop in and impress the Northwests. Stanley noted it was the blond man from earlier.

“I, for one, just don’t understand. How can you have no money at all? It’s preposterous.”

Stanley took a deep breath. He, unlike Fiddleford, was not good at ignoring comments opposing his view of the world. The engineer could sit there and quietly seethe, but Stanley, he wanted to _punch_ things. But he had to do this, for Fiddleford’s sake. Even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.

“I agree. They really should just buy houses and stop mooching off of others. It isn’t that hard.” Said a man in a plaid suit, his greasy hair slicked to one side.

The boxer dug his nails into his pants. He glanced at his watch. Fiddleford had been gone a solid twenty minutes and he was doing perfectly fine on his own. All he needed to do was survive this conversation for a little longer without busting someone’s nose and they would be home free.

“And you know where it’s the worst? Up in New York!” Theodore Northwest exclaimed. Stanley fought of a snicker and shut his mouth before he could say ‘ _You should see Nevada’_. The man at the head of the table continued on, “I have business partners upstate and they say it’s all chaos.”

Stanley let out a slow breath through his teeth. He just had to bare through this a little longer. His eyes found Fiddleford again as Mrs. Northwest dragged the engineer by a hand across the room. He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the room grow warmer as his anger increased.

“There’s no telling how many of them have that gay cancer that’s going around.”

The feeling left, taking all thought of warmth with it. Stanley felt his insides go cold. He froze, eyes darting to look at the man across from him who had said such a thing.

“I bet it attributes greatly to the fact that they're homeless; no one wants them around. Honestly, as my father said, its retribution.”

The boxer slid his chair back louder than he meant to, making an ear-piercing grating sound as he did so. He coughed, shooting Theodore Northwest a sheepish look.

“It’s been a very nice evening, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I have to get my assistant and leave. You know, ‘science waits for no man’.” He air quoted something Stanford would say often before giving a fake laugh.

“Oh, but the night’s just started! Don’t tell me we’ve make you uncomfortable with our talk of politics.” Mr. Northwest stood as well, his eyes giving the boxer a quick onceover as if he could draw information from that. Stanley fixed his posture; body language was everything in lying.

“No, no. I love talking about HIV and, uh, the economy as much as the next person. But I really must be going, I didn’t realize it had gotten this late.” He grabbed Theodore’s hand and shook it before the billionaire could protest again. “It was nice meeting you Mr. Northwest. Goodbye.”

The boxer walked away as casually, and as quickly as he could, ducking behind an empty alcove once he was out of sight. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to easy his heart back down from its incessant pounding in his throat. Stanley dealt with bullies by punching and the adult kind were always the worst. He couldn’t rightfully punch anything in this setting without being kicked out.

He ran a hand through his slicked back bangs to make sure everything was in order. He was fine. His cover was not blown, he had made it out unscathed, and now all he had to do was find Fiddleford.

The boxer put on a smile and navigated himself through the crowd with a series of, “Excuse me,” s before he came to the last place he had spotted the engineer. He paused, glancing around.

No sign of him.

With a sigh, he pushed his way back into the main room, pushing past the idling people surrounding the dance hall, tapping in beat with the hired orchestra.

“Excuse me sir, you look lost.” He was stopped in his tracks by another butler. Stanley fought back the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m just looking for my friend. He’s about 5’11, blond hair, kind of--”

The boxer trailed off as he finally spotted Fiddleford. The engineer was being led around the dance floor in a simple waltz by Marianne Northwest. He felt his mouth go dry.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

He gazed blankly back at the butler, a newfound emptiness taking roost in his chest.

“Actually, I could use some directions. Where’s the bar?”

\--

Stanley had downed three shots before he noticed the figure on the stool next to him. He sat up a little straighter as the man turned to him.

“So I see you stuck around anyways.” Theodore Northwest commented, eyes falling on the bartender. The boxer decided he wasn’t drunk enough to have this conversation. He cursed his high tolerance to booze.

“Well, Fiddleford seemed to be having such a good time, I didn’t want to interrupt him.” He tried his best to hide the bitterness. “So, I decided to have a drink.”

The billionaire scoffed, “Who needs him anyways? I don’t mind being your drinking partner.”

Stanley deadpanned. He knew the type: Theodore Northwest would throw him under a bus as soon as he had gotten what he wanted from the boxer.

“Alright, what do you want?” He voiced aloud, more confident now that he had something in him. Northwest looked taken aback, as if no one had ever cut directly through his façade before.

“What? Preposterous! I only wished to help you. You looked down in the dumps.”

The boxer glared harder.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Theodore held up his hands in defeat. “I want to know what you two are working on so diligently in your lab.”

“Sorry,” Stanley said, tossing back another shot as the bartender slid it to him, “I’m not allowed to tell you about any of it. To be honest, even if I could, I’m not sure I would go around blabbing about it to everyone. So why do you want to know so bad?”

The billionaire pulled a neatly rolled up piece of paper from his coat pocket, untying the ribbon to display the document to the boxer. Stanley didn’t do much reading, but he knew from one glance it was a contract.

“Have you ever heard of patents, Stanford?”

“Yeah, of course. You claim products as your own and get money for whenever someone uses them.” If fact, it was how he tried to get rich in the commercial business, selling projects to dopes and patenting them under his name. He could have made millions if any of them took off.

“The Northwest family has more recently made its money off the stock market and off of government promises, but we’re turning to other investments. Why stop at billions when you can have it all?”

Stanley swallowed thickly. He didn’t like the man’s tone of voice.

“What are you gettin' at?”

“What I’m saying is, if that thing in your lab really is as important as you and McGucket make it out to be, then I would like to patent it. Of course, you’d get a certain percentage as the creator, and I would give you a large sum to help fund the rest of its development. And I can afford to set quite a large amount aside for you, Dr. Pines. All I need to do is have my boys scope out the place, maybe I could even buy your lab from you, and see what your invention really is.”

Stanley stopped breathing altogether. He gripped the shot glass so hard he thought it might shatter in his hand. This was all he needed to solve his money problems, to finally make it up to his family and be accepted again. For a moment, he allowed himself to visualize it: he could live on the beach with a large boat, his parents wouldn’t have to run that dumpy shop anymore, and Stanford could--”

He blinked.

If Northwest had his way, he may never get his brother back. And what about Fiddleford? The machine had caused so much destruction with this man, what right did he have to sell it to the public? Splinters and rashes was one thing, but paranoia? Deep seated mental issues? No, he wasn’t that kind of man. It wasn’t even his to sign over.

“Sorry Mr. Northwest,” He gave the man a smile. “I can’t take you up on that offer. I’m not handing over the Shack.”

Theodore Northwest’s smug face settled back into shock. He pushed the contract closer, as if it would make the boxer more willing.

“But I could make billions! We could make billions. What could be possibly worth so much that you would throw my offer away?”

“Family.” Stanley stated simply with a smile.

As if on cue, Fiddleford approached the bar.

“Stan, what the hell do you think-- Oh, Mr. Northwest! Uh, what are you doing here?”

“I was just leaving.” The billionaire said coldly, shaking his head at the boxer. Stanley waved to him as he left before turning back to his drink. Fiddleford tugged on his arm.

“Oh my God, what did you _say?_ ” The engineer looked absolutely horrified.

Stanley replied with a shrug, “I just told him that he couldn’t know what our project was and then, thankfully, he buzzed off.” The engineer sighed in relief, color flooding back into his face. Stanley stood from his stool, wobbling a bit as he found his footing again.

“C’mon Fidds, let’s leave this thing before that broad drags you away again.”

The engineer blinked, unsure if he had heard that correctly. “What?”

The boxer changed the subject by slapping a leather wallet into Fiddleford’s hands.

“Stanley… You didn’t.”

“That’s Theodore’s wallet. It’s only got 200 dollars in it, though. The bastard must keep his credit cards locked away somewhere. But hey, I’m not complaining, 200 bucks is 200 bucks.” He grinned, watching Fiddleford try to fight the smile spreading across his face.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Hmmm, not nearly enough. Why?”

Fiddleford sighed.

“I’ll drive.”

\--

“You look very nice tonight.”

“Stanley, you’re drunk.”

“I’m just tipsy! I know how to hold my liquor. And you’re handsome.”

Fiddleford kept a death grip on the steering wheel. He prayed the man in the passenger seat would be too drunk to remember how red his face had turned at that comment. At least he could guarantee honesty from the boxer when he had had something to drink.

“I’m jealous.” Stanley said after a moment, slamming his hand on the dashboard. Fiddleford blinked.

“Why? You looked very nice as well tonight, Stanley.”

“No, it’s not that! Because that pretty girl got to dance with you tonight.”

Fiddleford fell very quiet. Even in his slightly drunken stupor, Stanley realized he probably shouldn’t had said that aloud. If he had been sober enough, he would have apologized immediately and avoided the engineer for the next few weeks. Instead, they sat in silence, awkward and thick.

“You could have danced with me.” The man’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Really?!” Stanley shouted as he jumped up in his seat. He had the perfect idea of what to bring back from the past next.

“Well… Yeah. If you had asked me to.”

“W-wait, I have an idea!” The man said, jamming his index finger against the window glass. “Pull over here!”

Even though he was a bit skeptical, Fiddleford did as the boxer said. After all, it was his car. And, he rationalized, Stanley would have just whined until he did it anyways. He turned up his headlights as he pulled into the abandoned parking lot of the grocery store. A quick look at the dashboard clock told him it was far too late for any sane person to be awake, much less at a grocery store to be open.

The car stopped. Stanley threw open the door, stumbling as he clambered out of the passenger side. He was over to the other side before Fiddleford even put his handle on the door. Stanley tugged it open for him, practically pulling the engineer out of the car.

Fiddleford squeaked when the man’s hands found his waist and tugged him out. The boxer pushed in front of him, turning up the radio full volume and flipping the high beams on.

“This is Toby Determined, radio intern at the all night rock station!” The radio blared.

“Stanley, what in Sam Hell do you think you’re doin’?” Fiddleford practically had to shout over the voice. Stanley didn’t answer, rather he grabbed his hand and pulled him in front of the car. The light from the car illuminated the strips of white along the parking lot, as well as the badly paved asphalt under their feet. They moved between the lights, just enough distance away so it wouldn’t blind the two, but so they could still see.

“And now,” the radio continued, “a song that’s made it to the top charts in Oregon: I'll Melt With You by Modern English! This goes out to all of my late night listeners out there and their special someone’s.” The man’s voice was nasally, hardly something you’d want announcing a love song.

The song started up; the guitar strummed happily, something in Fiddleford’s mind faintly recognizing the tune. The bass joined in. The engineer began to tap along, realizing that Stanley was still tightly holding his hands.

“Aw, shit.” Stanley muttered, moving slightly away from the smaller man to glare at his car. “This song’s old news. Couldn’t they play something better? Harder rock?”

“Wait, stop!” Fiddleford pulled him back before the boxer could change the channels.

“I-I like this song. I think.”

Stanley looked at him like that was the strangest thing he had ever heard before breaking out into laughter.

“You used to hate this song! I would sing it to you teasingly all the time in the lab, and you hated it!”

The laughter subsided, Fiddleford’s breath catching in his throat as Stanley moved closer to him.

“You- You do know how to dance, right Fidds?” The engineer paled. He was good at The Hustle. _Did that count?_ No, he knew it didn’t count for the kind of dancing Stanley was talking about. The boxer had practically been a professional back in his youth. He adopted an incredulous tone, making up for his momentary silence.

“You saw me dance tonight! And besides we’ve done this before.”

“I saw Mrs. Northwest _leading you_ tonight. And that little jig in the forest didn’t count. Here, I’ll take it slow.”

Stanley put a hand on the man’s waist. Fiddleford immediate response was to quickly clamp his palms onto the boxer’s shoulders. He heard the man snort, before Stanley pried the engineer’s left hand free and laced the smaller’s fingers with his own. He held their free hands out, bent loosely at the elbow.

The boxer began to move them, counting, “1, 2, 3, 4,” aloud. It was a quick step, but not so fast that Fiddleford immediately gave up hope. For a moment, he blindly fumbled in whatever direction Stanley pointed him in, the two making a small circle as they changed directions, feet stepping out and then sliding to accompany the other.

Something clicked in his rushing thoughts. It was just patterns, no different than, and he hated to say it, square dancing. It was just about stepping forward in one direction, and then back in another until the odd circle was complete.

With more confidence, he stepped along, feeling the tension of the night ease away as he stopped starring so intently at his feet. And with that he looked up.

“Looks like ya got the hang of it. Simple enough, right?” Stanley was beaming at him. His stomach twisted, but his mouth didn’t go dry, his head didn’t become devoid of thought. In fact, he wanted to talk, felt like he could talk the night away with the man so carefully holding his hand.

“Simple? Please, I could do this with my eyes closed.” Fiddleford joked back, the first time all night giving a genuine smile.

“Oh really?” Stanley teased, leaning in a bit closer. The engineer could see the small white huffs of breath in the cold parking lot air. “How ‘bout we mix it up a bit?”

The boxer pressed the heel of his hand against the engineer’s hip, pushing the man away from him before sliding out of his grip altogether. Fiddleford mirrored the image, holding on to the man’s hand like an anchor as he stepped back. Stanley tugged them back together, their free palms moving to occupy their original spots.

Fiddleford laughed, pressing his forehead into the other’s chest to muffle the loud noise before resurfacing.

“You call that mixing it up?”

Stanley quirked an eyebrow, leaning closer.

“Is that a challenge?”

 “I can take it.” The engineer replied just as cheekily.

There was that push again, a little more forceful this time; the engineer stepped outwards, catching a flash of the crooked grin on Stanley face. The boxer tugged him back in, but before Fiddleford could complete the arc, he lifted his arm high over the smaller’s head. The engineer spun, losing all sense of direction before being pushed away again in the opposite direction.

Stanley pulled him back.

“Okay.” Fiddleford gulped, shaking his head to rid the dizzy feeling. He knew when he was out matched. “You won, this was definitely mixing it up.”

The boxer leaned in close, the smaller feeling his prickly 5 o’clock shadow brush across his cheek.

“But we’ve only just started.” He practically purred, looking smug. Fiddleford narrowed his eyes, “accidently” stepping on the other’s toes. Fine, he would play the game.

Stanley twisted away; Fiddleford assumed he was pushing him away again. But instead of tugging him close, the boxer let the arc continue, their backs briefly brushing before he caught hold of the engineer’s opposite hand, letting go of the other, and returned them to their proximity. Fiddleford laughed, feeling bubbly despite his disorientation.

He knew the boxer would lead him safely back into his arms.

Stanley twirled the smaller man again, watching as he grinned and giggled, spinning back to him. The exercise had definitely sobered him up, but he was still finding it increasingly difficult not to kiss the other.

The song paused; so did both men, stopping suddenly. For a moment, Fiddleford thought it was over, but then it continued in a much softer and slower manor than before. And carefully, boldly, the engineer untangled his fingers from the other’s and slid his newly freed hand to the boxer’s shoulder. Stanley followed in suit, moving his free hand to the unoccupied side of the smaller’s hips.

The boxer pulled him to his chest, Fiddleford’s breath hitching at their proximity. Their eyes found each other in the radiance of the headlights. Stanley looked at him like he was the most valuable thing in the world, and for a moment Fiddleford felt like it. He didn’t think of his memory loss, of the cryptic messages left by Bill Cipher, or the portal that imprisoned his best friend. He was focused on the here and now and he felt lighter than air, and for once, actually safe.

The thought crossed his mind: close the gap, kiss him. The voice in his head screamed to “do it!” And in his momentary lapse of judgement, he almost did.

The engineer stopped himself.

 He had almost ruined this. The one friend he had left, the one moment of serenity he had had in decades, and he had almost tarnished it. It hit him like a ton of bricks. God, he was stupid. And he must have looked about as pitiful as he felt, because Stanley shifted his grip, brows furrowing in concern.

“Are you okay, Fidds?” The voice was so tender, it made him want to cry. He didn’t deserve this. He had thrown it all away when his cowardice had caught up to him and he had blasted his memories out. Stanley had so willingly forgiven him, and he was going to thank him by taking advantage of the only person left in the world who cared about him. Fiddleford felt sick.

With a sigh, he nodded, and buried his face in the crook of Stanley’s neck. He assured himself he would be fine; if worst came to worst he could erase the whole damned thing tomorrow morning. The engineer listened to the man’s heartbeat, along with Stanley’s faint humming in time with the music. Even though the song had picked up speed again, they continued to sway slowly.

So much for distancing himself. That plan had been a flop. He should really try harder next time, maybe take a break from the portal. This small day away was only proving to him more how much he needed a day off. Stanford would understand; he had been the one to give him so many days off after his first breakdown. Just a few days would do the trick, maybe tonight would be enough, and then he could finally make himself distant. But God, the man even smelled good too. Like-

Red and blue lights filled his vision. He pulled back to look over his shoulder. Stanley tensed, his light touch of his companion’s hips turning into a protective grip. The boxer was more familiar with those lights than any person should be.

“Shit,” Stanley’s eyes widened as the patrol car pulled in across from them. “It’s the cops.” The hatted man put his car in park before clicking something on the roof of his car. There was a sharp whine quickly replaced by a rough voice.

“Hey, you two. We got a noise complaint down at the station.” The police officer motioned to the still blaring radio coming from the El Diablo. “Do you have any idea what that might be about?” His tone said that they _definitely_ knew what it was about. Fiddleford gulped; he forgot that it was nearly 3 am and people were trying to sleep.

“Car, now!” Stanley yelled, pulling away from his companion and running back to his car. Fiddleford paused for a moment caught in the cop’s headlights like a deer about to be crushed, before hurrying after the boxer.

Fiddleford was the first to reach the car, mostly because he was better at running short distances. He slid into the driver’s side, the car already cranked, and changed gear just as Stanley dove in beside him.

“Step on it!” Stanley hissed, his pupils wide like that of a frightened animal. Fiddleford slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, the car speeding forward and clipping the policeman’s door as the officer attempted to get out of his vehicle.

“Hey, stop!”

The engineer ignored the warning, peeling out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Stanley wedged himself past the space between the front two seats before gluing himself to the back window.

Fiddleford’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, realization dawning of their mistakes. He felt his throat close up as a wave of guilt overcame him.

“Oh my God, we made things worse.”

“What?” Stanley asked, voice still tinged with panic.

“We made things _worse_!” Fiddleford repeated, face filling with dread.

“We had to get away or be thrown in the slammer.”

“No, they would have just fined us for disturbing the peace! But now they _do_ have something against us for fleeing and destruction of property! We shouldn’t have left.”

“What do you want us to do, go back?”

“I don’t know!” Fiddleford exclaimed, biting his lip as his eyebrows furrowed in fear.

The boxer sucked in a sharp breath, glancing at the engineer through the mirror.

“Well we can’t, Fidds. They already had something against me.”

“What?”

“If we had gone down to the station, they would have run our fingerprints by to see if we’re already in the system. And if they had done that, they would have found me in the database with warrants on my head. _Several_ warrants on my head.”

“What?!” The engineer stopped the car in shock.

“Keep driving!”

Fiddleford stepped on the gas again, Stanley maneuvering back to the passenger seat.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think it was important!”

“You didn’t think it was important to tell me you’re a wanted man and I’ve practically been hiding you from the police?” Fiddleford’s glare could have melted ice.

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t think it would come up.”

Either the Stanleymobile was too fast or the engineer clipping the cop’s car had been the distraction they needed for an escape. Maybe the officer hadn’t give chance in the first place; he didn’t know. He hadn’t heard sirens, and hadn’t dared to look up until they had turned a couple of sharp corners (directed by Stanley). They arrived at the apartment complex.

Silence filled the absence of words, and hung over their heads like a death sentence. The engineer parked; Stanley continued to shoot glances the other man’s way the rest of the ride, but it had become a blatant stare. Fiddleford got out of the car, closed the door, and began to briskly walk towards the stairs. With a sigh, the boxer quickly followed at his heels.

“C’mon Fidds, don’t be like that!” He called, hurrying up the steps after the engineer.

Fiddleford had already made it to his door, his shaking hands fumbling for the correct key. Stanley sighed, closing the gap.

“Fiddleford…”

“What? Got anymore secrets you want to throw at me?” He said bitterly, still trying to open his door.

“I told you I didn’t know it was important.”

Fiddleford rounded on him, pointing a finger against the boxer’s chest.

“Not important? You could have gone to jail at any time! I could have been held as an accomplice for harboring you. I just got Tate back, and I am not going to prison. And what about Stanford? What is he supposed to do if you end up locked away? How would I have found out to help you?”

Stanley was taken aback, mind reeling for an answer. Fiddleford shoved open the door, marching inside and not waiting for the boxer to follow. He stomped after him.

“Look,” The boxer placed a hand on the engineer’s arm, “I get it. You’re upset about the whole police thing. There’s no reason to be scared: the headlights were too bright for him to see our faces and we were too fast for him to get a license plate number.”

Fiddleford gave him a withering look, tugging free of his grip.

“No. You don’t get it.”

 “I said I’m sorry! What more do you want from me?”

“How about you stop hiding things from me.” Fiddleford seethed, whipping around to face the other man again.

“What, do you want me to tell you my whole life story?” Stanley threw his hands up exasperatedly, lip curling in anger.

“I wouldn’t mind.” The engineer blurted, voice breaking and sounding more sad than angry.

They both seemed to be shocked by the sudden outburst. Fiddleford took a cautious step back, hips pressed against the dining room table. Stanley swallowed his pride, looking at the hurt expression on the engineer’s face. Of course Fiddleford was upset. But not for reasons he had previously thought, but because it was finally hitting him how little he knew about the boxer, and whether or not he could actually trust his friend. Stanley sighed, his shoulders growing less rigid.

“We had fun tonight, right?” He said quietly, meeting the other man’s eyes. He took the smaller hand in his own, running a thumb over his knuckles. “Not so much the last part, or the beginning, but it was a nice break from the portal.”

Fiddleford slowly nodded, gripping Stanley’s hand tightly.

“I’m sorry the night had to be tainted. How about we just put this behind us, okay? I’ll let you know whatever you want to know. No more secrets, for either of us.” Stanley gave him a hopeful smile.

Fiddleford looked down, unable to return the man’s stare as the engineer crossed his finger’s behind his back.

“Okay.” The engineer replied, fighting to keep his voice from shaking. “No more secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all know what I'm getting at. The whole point of this chapter was to build up to a certain secret society. Also, because I'm a sucker for dancing scenes and I needed to have one last one before everything went south. 
> 
> [The song these nerds dance to is I'll Melt With You by Modern English](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LuN6gs0AJls)
> 
> Anyways, the next chapter will come out sooner than this one because I actually have most of it written ahead of schedule. I hope you enjoyed this little break from chaos, leave a kudos or comment becuase they always make my day a little better, and I'l try to get the next one out on time! Thank you!


	17. The Truth Will Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley learns of the secrets Fiddleford has kept locked away, while a certain dream demon makes a comeback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this chapter took so long! Between the holidays and finals and me having several draft versions of this chapter before I settled on one, it took way too long. Sorry about the wait. Maybe the angst will make up for it, because this is a doozy.

Fiddleford shook the pills out of the orange pharmaceutical bottle. He swallowed them dryly, wincing as they slid down his throat before chasing the green and white capsules with a handful of water. The dark circles under his eyes had grown significantly; the engineer snorted bitterly, thinking if they got any bigger he’d be drooping like a hound dog.

The man had hardly glanced at his reflection in the mirror before the world around him shifted, colors bleeding dry until the room was monochromatic.

Fiddleford shut his eyes tightly and let out a shaky breath.

_Please, no. Please, please no._

“Begging won’t help you much now, McGucket.”

He opened his eyes with a jolt, opting to stare at the triangular demon through the mirror. He bit his tongue, holding back the sob threatening to escape from his throat.

The pills weren’t working. Nothing was working. Nothing _ever_ worked. He was damned to be haunted by the apparition of every failure he had suffered through. The engineer’s grip on the sink tightened as he tore his eyes away from the demon.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Fiddleford kept his eyes glued to the water running down the drain as he heard the sound of a cat crying and ripping flesh behind him. No part of him wanted to see what awful feline creature Bill Cipher had just conjured and destroyed for his own sick amusement.

 **“You can’t go on ignoring me forever.”** The demon’s voice lowered as he physically yanked the engineer to face him.

“Go away.” Fiddleford said as steadily as he could muster, glaring at his captor.

“I don’t just ‘go away'.” Bill hissed mockingly, “If I don’t have ol' Sixer to torment anymore I might as well ruin your mind too. It’s your fault for remembering again in the first place!”

“ _Leave me alone_ …”

“That’s your problem, isn’t it? You can’t get me to go away! No matter how many times you blast yourself with your little invention, ever since the lesser Pines brought back your memory, I’m always the first thing to return.”

“Just shut up.” His breathing had grown ragged as he jerked his jaw out of the demon’s grip, turning back to the sink. _No, no, no_ he was _not_ going to cry. He was not going to give Bill Cipher the satisfaction.

“Every time you see his stupid face you can’t help but think how you doomed your friends.” Bill spoke in a voice dripping with sarcastic sympathy, watching with glee as the engineer came apart at the seams. “Go ahead, blast your head again! Sever more neurons, push forward your date with insanity! You’ll never, **ever** , be able to get me out of your skull. You’ll be stuck with me for as long as your pitiful mortal life remains.”

“Shut. _Up!_ ” Fiddleford said louder, slamming the edge of his fist into the mirror. An intricate spider web of cracks formed, but it did not shatter. The engineer slowly pulled his hand back, mutely shocked by his own action, flexing his fingers to remove the loose glass from the smaller ones lodged inside his wrist.

“Dad?” A quiet voice squeaked from the bathroom door. He turned to find his son peeking around the doorframe.

“Tate.” Fiddleford croaked, softening at the boy’s appearance. The engineer cleared his throat. “Tate, what time is it?”

“8:30.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

“Yeah, but I-”

“Tate, go to bed. Now. I have some adult things to do.”

His son looked frightened, and Fiddleford internally kicked himself for putting that look on the boy’s face. But he needed Tate to go. The boy didn’t need to see him, not like this. Tate gave him one last pleading look before leaving his perch in the doorway, returning back to his room.

The engineer closed the door behind him, slumping down against the hard, wooden surface. With a sigh, his eyes travelled to the source of, and the sanctuary from his problems: the memory gun, placed carefully on the sink counter where he had left it.

Cipher be damned, he wasn’t sure with what he had seen, that he wanted to be sane anymore.

\--

Stanley stared at the phone, pausing from his endless pacing. His hands unclenched from his sides, reaching up, barely skimming the smooth, plastic surface-- at the sound of a dial tone he slammed it back down.

The boxer jerked his hand back, taking a step away from the telephone mounted on the wall for good measure. Unease curled in his stomach, reaching past his throat. Stanley gulped, pushing the feeling back down.

Fiddleford had not contacted him in four days.

He wouldn’t have been bothered by this (okay, maybe he’d be a _little_ worried), except for the fact that Fiddleford had made it a point to call and tell the boxer if they could work on the portal or not. The man was organized; every day at 10 am on the dot he would call and Stanley would drag himself out of bed. Now is was 9 pm, and so far, Fiddleford had missed the last four calls.

The boxer couldn’t help that pang of guilt that told him this was because the last time they parted had ended on a bad note.

_“I’ll stay longer to make sure the cops didn’t follow us if that will help.”_

_“Stanley… Just go home.”_

He looked to the phone again, the phantom of its ring echoing in his ears. If the engineer was sick, he would have called by now. _Unless…_ Stanley gulped as a manor of all the different possibilities rushed through his mind, a vast majority of them unpleasant. He tapped his fingers together, giving his hands something to do to take his mind off of things.

Fiddleford was probably just caught up at the Northwest’s, probably not sick or in the hospital or dead or missing or anything. He had Tate this week, maybe Fiddleford was just busy with his son.

In a nervous twitch, his hand grabbed the phone and dialed the engineer’s number. He twirled the curly cord around his finger as he waited, foot tapping against the linoleum.

“Hello, you’ve reached Fiddleford McGucket. Sorry I’m not home right now, but-”

He slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

Straight to the answering machine.

Stanley held his stomach, feeling more nauseous than he had before. The phone hadn’t rang once, leading only to more open ended questions. His eyes fell from the phone to his car keys thrown haphazardly on the counter.

_Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make a quick check in._

\--

It wasn’t so much that he was sneaking through the apartment, Stanley just didn’t want to wake anyone. At least, that’s what he had told himself.

The door had been unlocked. It was not unusual for the people of this town to do so; it was a small, tight-knit group and the worst they had to worry about were thieves like Stanley himself. But Fiddleford had always been cautious, locking away any and all personal artifacts. So when the boxer came to the door and it pushed open so easily, he immediately knew something was wrong.

The first thing he did was check on Tate. Maybe it wasn’t his place, but with everything so unguarded and his recent spike in fondness towards the child, it was a top priority.

Thankfully, the boy was sound asleep in his bed, face buried in a pillow as he dozed. Stanley let out a sigh of relief before closed the door behind him without a sound. Come to think of it, he was taking extra care not to step on the creaking floorboards as well.

He wasn’t sneaking on purpose. It was just that every time Stanley opened his mouth to announce his presence his voice died in his throat.

The boxer continued his rounds about the apartment. Fiddleford’s bedroom door had been wide open; Stanley poked his head in, heart sinking at the lack of messy covers. It looked like the engineer hadn’t slept there in days. The rest of the house remained eerily silent in the same fashion.

Stanley made a second lap around the living room, looking for anything he could have missed. Maybe a note? Or a phone number? The kitchen counter and fridge were both alarmingly blank. Maybe the engineer was just out of the house. Heaving a sigh, he dragged his feet across the carpet, planning to leave altogether before his foot clipped against something on the floor.

The boxer picked the book up.

The title featured the words “Time Dilation” and he didn’t bother to read any further. It didn’t look particularly interesting, even the words on the spine were putting him to sleep. Stanley rolled his eyes, the thought ‘ _what a nerd_ ’ crossing his mind. He moved to place the book back into the hole in the bookshelf, when he fell short.

There was a faint light coming through the gap.

He dropped down to get a better look. No, he must be going crazy. But there it was again, he could see it even when he didn’t squint. A faint, yellow glow lingering in his pupils. Stanley scooped off armfuls of books before throwing them into a pile on the floor.

Fiddleford would surely kill him for the mess, but he couldn’t stop now.

There was not a back to the bookshelf, rather an empty space nestled behind it. The boxer righted himself, grabbing one end of the oak bookshelf and tugging. It swung open with a creak, the corner hinged to the wall.

The light from the living room mingled with the flickering light inside, outlining only the edges of the hollow room beyond.

With a gulp, he looked over his shoulder. Tate was asleep and Fiddleford was nowhere to be found. If he were to go looking, he wouldn’t caught. But still, he gave the hallway a quick glance, feeling an odd mixture of curiosity and guilt course through him.

The door had been open. The book had been laid so carefully on the ground, right in the middle of the path to the kitchen. Maybe Fiddleford had wanted him to find this place, he reasoned, though it did not seem likely.

He took a deep breath, and without another thought, took a step beyond the neatly cut frame.

The small light that the boxer had to work with did little to help him. He walked along blindly, a hand pressed against the wall, lined with-- What was that, papers? Notes? Stanley’s hand found the sharp protrusion of plastic he knew was the light switch. He flipped it on.

The boxer had expected anything other than what he saw before him.

The room was standard, it appeared to be an office of some kind. A blackboard was mounted against the wall next to a series of graphs and charts. The jarring part of it though, was that Stanley could hardly see the walls for the sticky notes. Great clumps of them covered the interior, curly cursive words he knew were Fiddleford’s own adorned the small yellow papers.

He grabbed the first one his eyes met with, one he had knocked off when turning on the lights. Stanley pulled it closer to his eyes, reading off the words: _‘Your car is a red truck parked in space B5. The keys are on the counter’._

For a moment the boxer thought they had been meant for him, but it seemed impossible that Fiddleford could write so many in the span of four days. With a shock, he realized the man was addressing himself.

Stanley moved forward, pushing past the rolling chair to the opposite wall of the room. He plucked one at random.

_‘Her maiden name is Warren’_

He grabbed another.

_‘Tate hates eggs’_

Stanley reached up to snatch up another yellow sticky note, halting in his tracks as he stared at the blank squares left behind by the ones he had already pulled off.

The spaces beneath were red. His head swiveled, looking to the other walls.

The other two walls, plus the ceiling were white.

 _“_ Red? _”_ He questioned aloud, stepping towards the covered wall once again to touch the scarlet underside. The boxer starred at his palm as it came off in flecks.

Stanley took a deep breath and began to peel off the notes, yellow papers coating the ground in a thin layer, pulling at them one by one until the wall was revealed.

Smeared across the plaster was a large, ovular eye, crossed out with a messy ‘X’ in red paint.

The boxer took a cautious step back and-- _oh God_ , he hoped that was just red paint and nothing else. But Fiddleford had gone to such lengths to hide this place from others, to hide this wall behind a series of notes so the engineer himself didn’t have to look at it again. All the air rushed out of Stanley’s lungs as he slipped backwards, catching himself against the desk.

A glass cylinder rolled across the flat top of the desk, pitching forward at the sudden weight. Stanley caught it before it could shatter against the floor. He eyed the item in his palm.

Like all things in the room, it was strange. Some sort of gadget that Stanley remained clueless to. Whatever its function, he hadn’t had the slightest clue. It didn’t look like any lab equipment the boxer had seen before. He flipped it over, finding the same handwriting along the outside.

‘ _McGucket memories’._

Stanley’s mouth fell open. No way. There was no way that the engineer had managed to create something like this. There was science fiction, and then there was pulling your memories out of your head and storing them in a tube.

It was then that his eyes travelled down the desk, towards the stack of five other cylinders, and a machine that looked like the hybrid of a television and Fiddleford’s personal computer design. The boxer gulped, gaze coming to stop at the large ‘Insert here’ sign. He was no rocket scientist, but he had played plenty of shape sorting games as a kid to know that the glass cylinder would fit perfectly.

He pulled the chair out, sitting down, before very gently placing the memory cylinder down. It snapped into place in the slot, the monitor coming to life with the symbol he had seen scrawled on the walls. It changed to static momentarily, Stanley leaning forward in anticipation.

 _Maybe I shouldn’t do this_ , he thought. This all seemed very… personal. It was like cracking open someone else’s diary. Of course, he had done this on many separate occasions with his brother, but this was a whole different ball game. He knew how much Fiddleford preferred to keep his personal life away from others, the engineer thrived on privacy and Stanley had respected that.

Before another bit of his conscience could wear him down, a face appeared on the screen, one he was all too familiar with.

“My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I-I wish to forget what I have seen.” The engineer’s voice sounded angry, his hands folded behind his back and he started at the camera. Stanley felt vulnerable at that scowl, as if Fiddleford knew what he was doing right this moment. He almost sighed in relief when the engineer redirected that stare to something off camera.

“I was working with a researcher in Gravity Falls, but he was…” The man paused, biting his lip as he searched for the vaguest response he could find, “He was misled. We were all mislead.”

“I helped him create a machine, originally intended for good, but it has the potential to destroy the world. So I,” Fiddleford gulped, looking like he was fighting to keep his voice from wobbling, “I decided to quit the project. B-But I can’t…. I can’t sleep. I can’t think! I’ve seen too much. Things mortal eyes should never see. Timelines stretched before me, endless possibilities. I’ve watched the world burn and I’ve watched it be rebuilt all in the span of seconds. Empires fall, ice ages, mass murders, loved ones… hurt.” Stanley’s eyebrows furrowed in pity as he watched the engineer suck in a shaky breath.

“I wish to forget. I _need_ to forget. I can’t keep living like this. Which is why,” Fiddleford held up the gun; Stanley winced, “I have created this machine. It’s- It’s a long shot. So I’ve decided to test it on myself, and document it. If all goes as planned, I should be able to remember everything that doesn’t factor in with what I have typed.”

The boxer was thankful the keypad was facing away from the camera. He didn’t know if he could have been able to take seeing his name punched into the gun.

“If not, I have put the most crucial information about myself on the wall. So, me, if you are watching this, and hopefully you will have retained some cognitive brain functions, all you should need to know are on these recordings, and on those sticky notes.”

Fiddleford stood, taking a step back from the desk and raising the gun. Stanley looked away.

“Test Subject 1: Fiddleford.”

He heard the blast, but he didn’t dare to look. Thankfully, the screen returned to static only moments later.

Stanley jumped in his seat as the cylinder popped out of the slot, rolling into the pile. The boxer counted on his fingers; five, five other memory containers. The lump in his throat returned and this time he didn’t have the strength to push it back down. His blood ran cold at the thought.

_Fiddleford had only used the gun once, right? Right?_

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair before taking the container labelled ‘McGucket memories 2’ and popping it into the monitor.

Fiddleford looked much happier this time around, though it seemed a little too cheerful, something akin to mania. The engineer fixed his posture and began to speak as soon as his image was present on the screen.

“It worked! I-I don’t remember a thing. This is amazing, it’s really,” the blond man paused, eyes sparkling as he looked proud of himself for a moment, “it’s really genius!”

Stanley felt his stomach churn; the man was _this_ happy now that he had gotten the Pines out of his life.

“I’ve been thinking that this thing could really save lives. I don’t want to know what I went through, but if it was so terrible that I needed so desperately to get rid of it, then maybe others could use this too. We’ve all seen terrible things, and it’s so much easier to forget than to suffer through it alone.”

 _You weren’t alone_ , Stanley thought sourly.

It reluctantly dawned on him that no, Fiddleford had truly been alone. The boxer had been in Nevada, living out of his car, while Stanford became more reclusive and obsessed with every day. It must have really eaten up the engineer inside. Stanley’s frown deepened. He would give anything, just to go back and right what he had done. It had all been one big misunderstanding, all of them tricked by a cunning dream demon. But he didn’t suppose Fiddleford had made machine that sent him to the past, just something that erased it.

The boxer had missed the last words of the man’s monologue before the engineer began anew.

“--I have decided to create task force of sorts. I have a protégée, Ivan, and he practically begged me to see what I’ve been workin’ on. He’s majoring in some sort of medical science and wanted help with his thesis, so I showed him my project. He’s only a boy, really, but he’s been a real help. He’s recruited some other people, too. We’re calling it ‘The Society of the Blind Eye’.” Fiddleford eagerly held up a notebook with the crossed out eye on it. Stanley paled at the familiar symbol.

“We’ll help others forget what needs to be forgotten. Maybe I can make up for what I’ve done.”

With that concluded, Fiddleford took a deep breath, his demeanor changing as he hunched over the desk.

“To the me who is watching this, you’re probably wondering why I’m doing this to myself a second time if things worked out so well in the trial run. Hopefully, you will remember the society once this is over, and be strong enough to lead it. But that is not why I am here today.” The engineer gulped, pulling the gun from his lap.

“A man visited me today. He claimed his name was 'Ford'.” Stanley blinked, attention focusing back on the monitor at the mention of his twin.

“When I didn’t recognize him he grabbed me by the shoulders and started screaming about mistrust, about science experiments and demons.” Fiddleford looked shaken just retelling the tale, his fingers digging into his arm. Stanley had recalled Ford briefly telling him of his visit to the engineer’s apartment, before the man had been consumed by the portal, but he had never imaged the events had unfolded like this.

“I-I pushed him back and he looked so surprised he nearly fell over. He yelled a few more… unsavory things and then he left. Just like that.” The engineer bit his lip.

“I can’t help but think this was the visiting researcher I had left notes on. Even when I stayed far away, he came looking for me. Seeing him,” Fiddleford’s frowned deepened, “hurt. My head hurt like the dickens. I saw white and for a moment thought I might pass out. I guess that’s just another side effect to document. I have yet to remember anything, so my work still remains strong, my tests are valid. That being said, I do not believe ‘Ford’ will come back. So I would like to erase the whole ordeal.”

Stanley’s throat tightened. Now he understood why his brother had been so cross about the engineer. He didn’t forgive him for it, but he empathized.

“It’s funny,” Fiddleford said, but the boxer did not laugh along, “I’m tellin’ you all this so you can know what I want to forget. It’s almost paradoxal. Of course, this is also a log of sorts to pick up on any side effect I might have missed. But, knowing what happened, and experiencing them are two very different things in the mind. This is an act of mercy.”

The boxer was not fast enough to look away; the gun blast came suddenly this time. Fiddleford had the tip pressed against his temple in a moment’s notice, shutting his eyes tightly as he clamped down on the trigger before all emotion left his face.

Stanley reeled back from the monitor, horror chilling his veins. In that moment in-between the gun blast and the static, the engineer looked lifeless. The boxer swallowed the bile that arose in his throat. He prayed he was long gone before he had to see Fiddleford look that way again. Stanley was unfazed as the memory canister popped out.

The boxer shoved the third in without another thought. He had to know, now that he had seen a portion of the details unraveled; he needed to finish this.

Four more to go.

The blindeye flashed, and this time, the engineer was much more somber, his tie undone around his rumpled shirt collar. It was a shocking transition from his excitement in the previous. Fiddleford sat with his head in his hands, breathing loud and uneven.

“I’m divorced.” The voice croaked. Stanley swore his heart stopped completely.

“Didn’t think that was important enough to write down, apparently.” He said bitterly, throwing his head up away from his hands, slamming his palms against the table with a reverberating _thud_. The engineer’s eyes, red and swollen, glared at the camera. Stanley felt his stomach drop.

“I knew I had a wife. I knew of my son, Tate.” Fiddleford heaved a deep breath, “But I was unsure of their whereabouts and frankly too scared to find out. Today, I worked up the nerve to call Laura’s number. She told me it’s been six years. Six years!” The engineer yelled the last part, hands clutching at his hair.

“Six years. I erased all of it.” Fiddleford mumbled pitifully; the boxer felt his heart breaking. He instinctively reached out, putting a hand against the screen. It had been so long since the engineer had stumbled into their house in the middle of the night, the pain of his divorce still stinging and fresh. He couldn’t image how awful it was to reopen that old wound, after he had finally gotten over it.

“She told me-” Fiddleford was cut off by a violent hiccup, and the boxer saw tears peaking up from behind his eyelids.

“She told me I was a bad person. And I’m starting to think I truly am.”

Stanley heard the familiar clatter of the gun as it was pulled up and averted his eyes. The video ended there, returning to static. It had been surprisingly short.

The boxer was still shocked at the quantity left; what _else_ had happened to upset the engineer so much that he wanted it permanently deleted? He slid in the next one with less gusto, shaken from the previous.

The best way to describe the engineer was unkempt. If he had looked bad in the last, this was a whole new level. Stanley hardly recognized the man at first, he was just so disheveled. Fiddleford was a clean freak; this man was not. His hair ragged, stubble present on his usually clean shaven face, eyes wild and panicked. He looked like a man who simultaneously cared too much, and not at all.

“I’ve been betrayed.” Fiddleford started very slowly before tossing a look over his shoulder. When he was sure nothing was behind him but the sticky-note covered walls, he continued.

“The society failed, it was a flop. Ivan, all of them, voted me out. Said I was too unstable to lead them anymore.” He allowed himself a nervous laugh, wringing his hands, “Unstable? Me? How foolish of them. I was the voice of reason. I know Ivan’s been doing unsavory deeds behind my back, usin’ the gun on himself and other members, rallying against me.”

He gulped, “And worst of all, using my invention on others against their will.”

Stanley’s eyes widened.

“I should to warn the town, warn the police that something awful is going on beneath the museum, that a society of uneducated vigilantes have brainwashed half the population. But anyone who opposes the society…” He trailed off, biting his lip fearfully. Stanley clenched his jaw tightly as hot rage rushed over him. He didn’t know who this Ivan guy was, but he was getting added to the ‘Ass-Kicking List’.

“When they find me, they’ll make me brain dead. They won’t stop until they erase every part of who I am. And th-the paranoia is overwhelming. I- I would have boarded up my doors if my landlord hadn’t have yelled at me. I don’t feel safe, and that’s what started this whole mess in the first place! It’s just a cycle, over and over again. It’s like someone’s determined to make me lose my mind!”

The engineer fell silence, eyes clouding over as he stared at his hands in thought. Stanley was putting the pieces together, recalling an entity who had done the same to his brother. He hadn’t even met Bill Cipher, and the demon continued to take those he cared about away.

“If-If I erase this,” The boxer’s attention was drawn back to the screen at Fiddleford’s shaking voice, “then I might forget about what dangers I face. But, it would also give me some- some…” The engineer paused, putting a hand against his forehead.

“Sorry, I’ve been forgettin’ words…” He laughed nervously, looking over his shoulder again. Fiddleford took a deep breath, letting his shoulders relax.

“I might find some solitude. If I have even just a few days, I might be able to collect my thoughts and come at this from a different angle. Maybe I- I can sleep. I guess it’s a good thing I made my own copy of the original memory gun after all.”

Stanley preoccupied himself with grabbing the second to last container while the previous finished up. He sat back, running his fingers over the cool glass. How much had Bill factored into this? To what lengths had he driven not only Stanford, but Fiddleford as well? His grip tightened nervously. And what exactly did the demon have instore for him?

More importantly, why hadn’t Fiddleford told him about this? His heart slowed its pace. Did people really see him as that untrustworthy?

Stanley placed the new memory container in the slot. He was intrigued, but the boxer desperately wanted to get this over with. The more he saw, the more he found out, the more it hurt him to know what exactly had been transpiring with the engineer.

“I met a man today.”

Stanley froze, transfixed on the image before him. Fiddleford was all cleaned up, hair combed neatly, shirt wrinkleless, as if the last tape had been a completely different person.

“He was at my door, just how I described the scientist before him. But he was… different. He looked wild for one, like he had just crawled out of drug den, but there was an odd sense about him.” Fiddleford cleared his throat as his hands clasped together.

“At first I was afraid he was part of the society, or hired by them to finally make me lose my mind. But he seemed panicked himself. He said his name was Stanley.”

There was no emotion in the man’s voice, just cold and critical, as if he was analyzing data. Even as he said the boxer’s name, it remained the same. Stanley went rigid.

“I-I remembered that I had written something down on him, before the first test run. Wait, it’s here somewhere…” The engineer ducked below his desk, from the sound Stanley could tell he was sorting through papers.

“Ah, here it is…” Fiddleford mumbled, blond hair bouncing as he returned to his seat. He adjusted his glasses, shifting the sticky note before reading aloud:

“'Stanley Pines is a good person’.”

Stanley felt his throat tighten, suddenly finding it much harder to keep his breathing steady.

“I remembered reading that the first time I awoke, so I decided he wasn’t a threat and let him in. It was more out of curiosity than anything; he so desperately wanted to help me. I realized he was a key factor of my past, and though I knew I didn't want to remember it myself, I wanted to know exactly what had transpired in the last six years. Since Laura's call, I was I've been searching for someone with any sort of a clue as to waht happened. And this man, Stanley was offering me all the answers."

The engineer paused, shaking his head, "And if it only effected me negatively in knowing these things, I could just take them all away again.” He gave a small laugh, hands fastening around the gun.

“As it turned out, the two of us have a much deeper history than I expected.” 

The boxer knew Fiddleford didn’t understand the weight of those words.

“He brought me to his house, showed me some of my old work, and then… I remembered something.” Fiddleford shuddered, eyes gaining a dark edge as he looked away from the camera. “I remember what I saw that first night. I remembered bein’ fooled time and time again. I remembered every ounce of sorrow I went through, and it all ripped through me at once.”

“But, that’s okay! I can take it away again. I can forget about all of this, forget my past work, forget about Stanley Pines, everything.” Fiddleford smiled, but it did not show in his blues eyes.

Stanley felt his gut give a sickening lurch. His eyes snapped onto the date displaced in the left corner: four weeks ago.

He blinked in confusion. That didn’t make any sense, if he had been successful in the mind-wipe, then he wouldn’t have remembered the boxer after their first meeting.

“He asked me to come back and work for him, b-but I can’t do that. I will not relive what I have seen, not ever again. Not even for him. To the future me: he will come back. But I believe if he sees you are once again clueless he will give up, just like his brother did. I only hope that you can continue living ignorantly.”

Stanley watched carefully as the next events unfolded: as in all the tapes, Fiddleford took a deep breath, pressed the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. The same bright light flashed again, the engineer slumped forward onto the desk before static took over the monitor. Stanley sat back. _If Fidds got what he wanted then why...?_  He questioned silently. The boxer didn’t move his eyes from the screen as he felt blindly for the final cylinder, snapping it into place.

The screen flashed on.

Fiddleford was screaming.

Stanley’s heart dropped as he looked at the image. The camera had been knocked onto the floor, flipped carelessly on its side, a crack running down the middle of the lens. The engineer’s shoes stomped into view, scattering papers in his rampage. The boxer inched closer to the screen, craning to understanding the man’s yells.

The tape skipped, static briefly infecting the screen before there was a new scene before him. The blackboard had been thrown to the floor, as well as pieces of what once had been a coffee mug. Fiddleford sat cross-legged in the one untouched corner, his hands snatching up the camera before his face coming into focus.

He was wearing the same outfit as the previous video, and a quick glance at the timestamp told Stanley only 30 minutes had passed. The engineer’s face was vastly changed; the calm collectedness, albeit worried, had been replaced with wide, frightened eyes, face flushed, eyelids red as if he had been frantically wiping them only moments ago.

Fiddleford took a shaky breath--

“It won’t work. I’ve used the gun three times now and each outcome is the same. I forget for three minutes and then I remember everything I’ve tried to erase. Stanley Pines, the portal, Bill Cipher, it just won’t _leave_.” The engineer’s voice cracked, he covered his mouth with a hand, the other shaking and clamped tight around the gun.

“But what’s worse is I keep remembering more and more. Something won’t let me forget. Something continues to trigger these memories all back, like my own brain is working against me. It won’t let me forget, but I have to or everything will be ruined and I-” Fiddleford paused as blood began to trickle down his nose.

“Oh _shit_.” Stanley muttered aloud, breath halting in his throat as the engineer’s tentative fingers reached up to touch the blood. The boxer felt himself begin to panic, eyes flicking back to the door he had come in.

This was taken four weeks ago, the entire span he had gotten to know the engineer again; the entire time he had been hiding _this_.

Fiddleford’s blue eyes, tearful and scared, locked on the screen.

The monitor went black.

Stanley sprung out of the chair before he even knew what he was doing, eyes raking through the containers. He bit the inside of his cheek, clutching the final cylinder hard enough his knuckles turned white. Without thinking he shoved it in his pocket, before dashing towards the exit.

He needed to find Fiddleford. No matter how upset he was that the engineer had willingly erased so much, he couldn’t help but be haunted by the final frame. Stanley was well aware of Fiddleford’s symptoms--the dizzy spells, momentary memory loss, the migraines--he had just written it off as side effects of getting his memories back. But what if it was _actually_ hurting him. His insides twisted at the horrible thought that Fiddleford had been suffering this whole time in silence.

Stanley barreled into the bookshelf, not bothering to pick up the scattered novels as he continued through the house. He had found his voice; calling for the engineer, remembering too late that people were trying to sleep. But at this moment, the boxer didn’t care. He needed to find Fiddleford and hold him close and demand to know how he could help.

He stopped in the hallway as a dull thump resounded from the bathroom. Stanley leaned toward the door, ear pressed against the wood. He heard no more movement, but the faint sound of breathing from inside.

The boxer’s hand froze, lingering on the cool, brass knob. It was the one room he hadn’t checked.

“Fidds?” He called, quieter this time.

There was no answer from the inside.

“Fiddleford, I’m coming in. Okay?”

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried over the lack of response. The boxer pushed the feeling down, swallowing for good measure. He need to be strong for whatever the engineer was going through.

Stanley pressed past the door, brain becoming devoid of thought when he spotted the man on the ground. Fiddleford was sprawled across the tiles; the boxer’s blood ran cold when his eyes found the memory gun held loosely in the engineer’s limp grip.

He was at the other’s side in an instant, calloused hands moving as gently as they would allow to flip the engineer onto his back. Stanley’s palm slid to Fiddleford’s jugular, finding the dull beat he recognized as a pulse. That only brought him minimal relief, he didn’t think the engineer was capable of suicide. But how was he supposed to check the man’s mental stability? _He’s breathing_ , the boxer told himself, moving to pluck the gun from the engineer’s hand _, and that in itself is a miracle._

Fingers barely skirted the edge of the memory eraser before a loud gasp broke the eerie silence. Stanley felt himself being shoved backwards, his back hitting the ground, eyes screwing shut as his shoulder collided with the corner of a cabinet.

When they opened again, Fiddleford was standing about him, chest heaving for air. The engineer’s arm raised.

Stanley found himself staring down the barrel of the gun.

“Who are you?” Fiddleford asked through gritted teeth, more venom spoken in those three words than the boxer had heard from their entire friendship. “Why are you here?”

“I-I I’m,” Stanley fumbled for words, eyes flicking from the gun to Fiddleford’s own furious countenance, “I’m Stanley.” He gulped, raising his hands as he slowly sat up straight. “I’m your friend. Don’t you remember, Fidds?”

The engineer blinked, arms faltering for a moment before he readjusted his grip on the gun.

“I don’t recall a Stanley.” His voice was hard, but had lost its steely edge. The engineer’s eyes were angry, but the boxer knew him well enough to tell that they also held fear and confusion. Despite his heart threatening to tear out of his chest with how fast it was beating, Stanley moved to stand, the engineer’s gun following him the whole way up.

“I’m Stanley Pines,” He tried again, urging his voice to keep steady, “you have to know me.”

He remembered Fiddleford’s despair-filled voice form the video, recounting that he would only forget for three minutes at a time before things came rushing back. Of course, that would mean the engineer had just used the gun on himself _, again_. Stanley took a deep breath, slowly stepping forward as he gained ground on the other man. He hoped the loss was only temporary, and that he hadn’t been too late to save the engineer from himself.

“Fiddleford, I need you to listen to me very carefully. You have to give me the gun. You're not thinking right now, and I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

“N-No! Get back.” The engineer’s voice cracked, body betraying him as he took a step backwards. “I’m warning you.”

Stanley’s muscle memory kicked in, remembering how he had been taught to deal with people who brought guns to fights. He reached out, grabbing the gun by the top and twisted it away with the flick of his hand, the other palm grabbing the engineer’s wrist.

Fiddleford panicked, fingers squeezing on the trigger as he flinched. The blast flew under the boxer’s arm, hitting the door. Stanley glanced behind him at the black cinders that had been seared into the wood where the blast had hit. He starred back at the engineer, both of them wide eyed before the gun clattered to the floor.

Shaking his head, Fiddleford staggered backwards, back pressing against the wall as he tugged out of Stanley’s grip, trying to put a distance between himself and the boxer. The larger man followed him back, hands still raised to try and calm the other

“I’m s-sorry. Please don’t-!”

“Fidds, I’m not gonna do anything. Calm down.” He soothed, heart twanging with guilt as Fiddleford’s eyes got wider, fuller of fear as he approached.

The engineer was the first to freeze, breath catching in his throat as he felt the slow throb of a headache building. He teetered, his palm rushing up to press against pain in his forehead. Stanley paused soon after, eyebrows furrowing as blood rolled down from his companion’s nose, streaming down and over his chin.

He took a step forward, subconsciously wiping the blood off of the man’s lips with a thumb, not even thinking about the motion. Fiddleford made a small choking noise before his shoulders sagged.

Stanley caught the engineer as he stumbled forward against his chest, his arm grabbing Fiddleford’s back to steady him as the man fell limp.

The two sank to the floor, Stanley cradling the unconscious man’s body to his chest as he leaned back against the bathtub. He had never felt more helpless in his life, clutching Fiddleford against him as he prayed for the man to open his eyes again. He didn’t care if the engineer never remembered his name, as long as he was safe, as long as he was sane, that was all that mattered. 

All Stan had to do now was wait.

And that he did, watching carefully as Fiddleford’s eyes moved beneath his lids, the boxer’s hand pushing back blond locks from his face.

Biting his lip anxiously, he stared down at the engineer’s slack features. He hadn’t been this close to Fiddleford while he was unguarded in months, not since the last time they shared a bed. The man seemed so small.

“You’re gonna be fine, Fidds.” The boxer murmured aloud, mostly to reassure himself. He pressed his face against the engineer’s hair with a sigh. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

As if in response, Fiddleford’s eyes snapped open, nails digging against Stanley’s arm as he gasped. His body grew rigid, eyes blindly searching until they landed on the man holding him so tightly. The engineer exhaled slowly, relaxing in the boxer’s arms.

“Stan…?”

“Welcome back.” The boxer quipped, trying to smile but instead it coming across more as a grimace. Stanley’s expression was like a punch to the gut. Heart twisting in realization, Fiddleford knew the boxer was putting on a brave face for him. The engineer’s hands balled into fists into the man’s shirt, trembling as he gripped with all his might. He was weak; too weak to stop himself, too weak to resist Bill Cipher’s cruel tricks. And even after all he had done to Stanley, through his selfishness and cowardice, the man was still there for him.

The engineer came to the realization that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to fix himself.

Fiddleford blinked, once, twice, trying to stop the tears that welled in the corners of his vision. He pulled himself forward with his last ounce of strength, and buried his face into the crook of the boxer’s neck.

Stanley’s arms encompassed him, anchoring him to the present. He was safe; despite it all he was in the boxer’s arms. Fiddleford was not one for loud crying, but the heaving that wracked his body tore through his throat in raw, guttural sobs, only muffled by the boxer’s T-shirt. When his throat grew sore and he could no longer bring himself to make a sound, his uneven breaths replaced the screaming.

He felt himself be moved, but was too numb to care as Stanley nudged the door open with a foot. Fiddleford had regained most of his composure by the time they entered his room, the boxer setting him down on the bed as if he might shatter any moment.

Stanley sat on the end, eyes averted to give the illusion of privacy that he knew the engineer would want. Fiddleford collected himself, wiping his eyes and fixing his fogged up glasses with his shirt before slowly settling down next to the boxer.

After a pregnant pause, Stanley started slowly, “I saw your tapes. You know, the ones behind the bookshelf?” Fiddleford physically flinched at the words, heart dropping as Stanley offered him the memory canister from his coat pocket.

A small, defeated, “Oh,” was all he could manage.

Another beat of silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” The boxer sounded so sincere it _hurt._ The smaller man nodded, eyes focused on the floor.

“How many times have you… Used that thing?”

Fiddleford gulped, “N-Nine times.”

“How many times did you erase me?” The engineer could feel Stanley’s eyes burning into the back of his skull as the man asked the question. Fiddleford’s breath stuttered in his throat. He had never meant for this to happen.

“Stanley, I-”

“How many?” Stanley latched onto his arm again when the man made an attempt to scoot further apart.

“Four. But the first three times I had only just met you and I was scared and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and the last time wasn’t about you at all, it was about _Bill_ and I didn’t mean for you to ever-”

“Fidds, slow down.” Fiddleford took a deep breath, finally allowing himself a glimpse of Stanley’s expression. The boxer was obviously upset, some gut-wrenching mixture of concern and disappointment. The pressure on his forearm decreased to a feather-light touch; Fiddleford shut his eyes as a shiver raked down his body.

“You tried to get rid of your memories today.” It was more of a statement than a question, but it was offered up in need of explanation.

“Y-Yes. Bill wouldn’t leave me alone; he hasn’t let me sleep in days. And he wouldn’t stop trying to get in my head, and he kept taunting me and-- I scared Tate.”

Fiddleford paused, trying to stop himself from shaking at the mere mention of the demon. 

"Bill keeps telling me all these awful things and making me hallucinate and I feel like- like I’m losing my mind. I don’t want to live like this anymore.” The engineer’s voice died down into a whimper.  

Stanley’s hand slid into his, holding on tight. For a moment Fiddleford forgot how to breathe.

“Fidds, I’m so sorry. God, I’m such an idiot,” the boxer shook his head, running a hand through his bangs. “I should’ve never pulled you back into this. You got out of this crazy mess and I dragged you back with me. Bill would have never come after you again if I would have just kept my damn mouth shut.”

“Don’t say that!” Fiddleford exclaimed, clutching onto the man's hand as he shook his head. “You’re not stupid, Stan. This,” the engineer bit his lip, eyes glancing away for a moment, “this is my fault. Not yours.”

“But it is me, isn’t it? I keep triggering your memories back. Forgetting them would make you happy.”

Fiddleford looked down. What was he supposed to say to that? It _was_ the boxer who continued to bring him back, no matter how many times he used the gun he would remember the Pines and everything else would follow.

At the engineer’s pause, Stanley grimaced and continued,

“I’m the one ruining everything for you.”

“No,” Fiddleford shook his head, eyebrows furrowing, “you’re the one keeping me sane. I mean, yes, you are triggering my memories back and that’s a bit unpleasant, but… Don’t apologize. I-I want to remember. That’s why it won’t work. Because even when my memories are stripped down to the bare minimum, some part of me, deep down, _needs_ you in my memory.”

Stanley moved forward until their faces were only inches away before moving his hand, gracing by the engineer’s to wipe away the smeared blood that remained. Fiddleford blinked in confusion as the boxer squinted at him.

“The bags under your eyes are terrible. When was the last time you slept?”

Fiddleford felt his face turn red, growing self-conscious when he remembered how disheveled he must have looked. The engineer did the simple math in his head.

“Uh, 50 hours? Give or take.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Stanley said with a hum. “You’re delusional from lack of sleep. That’s why you’re being so nice to me.” The smaller man deadpanned, suddenly overcome with the urge to push Stanley off of his bed. Instead he fought to stifle the infectious smile the boxer was shooting his way.

“C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

Stanley pulled back the man’s sheets and helped him settle in, the engineer complaining the whole time. There was nothing Fiddleford hated more than being treated like he was helpless. Though, he couldn’t help but appreciate it somewhat as another wave of nausea rolled over him, reminding him just how sick and weak the gun’s blast could make him. But that wouldn’t be a problem for long; drowsiness was finally settling in.

“Hope you don’t mind,” the boxer noted, “but I’m staying on your couch tonight. Ya know, just to watch over you and Tate. Maybe I can be of some use to you. If things get bad, come to me, not the gun. Got it?”

The smaller man nodded. And with that, Stanley gave him a sympathetic smile and turned to leave. He paused when he felt the engineer’s grip on his wrist, pulling him back.

“Wait.” Fiddleford said, biting the inside of his check. His eyes were downcast, as if he were trying to figure out how to word something. The boxer raised an eyebrow, patiently waiting. The engineer’s one-worded reply came simply:

“Stay.”

Stanley’s heart skipped a beat.

“I-I don’t want Bill to get me in the middle of the night. Please.”

The boxer sighed, putting on a façade and making a big fuss about how inconvenient it was to him, grinning widely the entire time. He slid underneath the covers next to the engineer, stretching his legs out to warm the cold sheets. Stanley flopped over on his side as he angled his head up by putting his hand under his skull.

Fiddleford snuggled in almost immediately, moving to use the boxer’s arm as a pillow, his eyes still shut. Stanley curled his free arm over the man’s side, tensing as he stopped himself too late from preforming the old habit.

“Is this—” He cleared his throat, “Is this okay?” All he got in response was a faint hum, the man cuddling closer. Stanley jumped when legs slid between his own, tangling their limbs beneath the sheets. The boxer felt warmth spark in his chest, expression softening as he gazed at the sleeping engineer.

 _Bill Cipher, huh?_ Stanley’s arm tightened protectively around the smaller man at the thought, earning a small noise of comfort from the engineer. The demon was the source of all their problems, pushing both people the boxer cared about most to the brink of insanity, tricking them both into doing awful things. He remained vigilant over the sleeping man, watching for any signs of a nightmare. Stanley dared Bill Cipher to try and get to them while he was here; he wanted to give the triangle a piece of his mind.

He promised himself he wouldn't let Fiddleford be harmed like that, never again. Not while he could do something about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't make promises you can't keep Stanley! 
> 
> Aaand this fic is almost finished?? Wow, I didn't think I would get this far, or have it end up being this long. There are only a few chapters left.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading. Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed, it always helps me to know how people respond to my newer updates.


	18. Breaking and Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan steals from the US government while, in usual fashion, Fiddleford gets dragged into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, last time I said I was going to start updating faster BUT THIS TIME I MEAN IT! I'm going to buckle down and start writting every day for these last few chapters.
> 
> As for this one, trigger warnings are violence, blood, and just guns in general. Little tiny bit of gore, nothing too much though.

“Hurry it up, kid. Shop’s closin’ in five.”

Stan watched as the kid in front of him looked between two shirts, an elbow rested lazily against the counter as he counted his money for the day. Townsfolk had been the majority of his customers, tourists were rare considering it was the end of winter, but he had still made a decent profit. The boxer glanced up from the register, raising an eyebrow as the boy before him continued to make that awful whine.

“I don’t know which one to get!” The boy frowned, turning his big eyes up to Stanley, chubby cheeks puffed out in a pout. The boxer scratched his stubble, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“How about this, kid. I’ll cut you an offer. I’ll hold both shirts for you. You come back here when you get an allowance, and I’ll only double-- no, _triple_ the price for you. Deal?”

The boy’s eyes sparkled and he emitted a happy shriek Stanley thought might break the sound barrier. He dug a pinky in his ear, making sure he could actually still _hear_ , before turning back to the child. The kid’s mop of ash brown hair bounced along with the boy himself as he shoved the shirts onto the counter.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Now get out of my house.”

Stanley rolled his eyes as the child practically ran out the door, happily calling to his mother the whole way out. He placed the shirts under the desk, grumbling about staying open late for customers to himself as he leaned over.

The boxer snapped upright, almost hitting his head on the counter as he heard unmistakable quiet laughter from the doorway.

“Did you just con a _child_?”

“How long have you been standing there, Fidds?”

The engineer approached the counter, a smile working its way to his face. Fiddleford looked significantly better than he had a few weeks ago: he was gaining weight again, his cheeky sense of humor returning, and the bags under his eyes fading. Stanley had been meticulous about his sleep schedule, leaving at the drop of the hat when he needed to, when the engineer’s night terrors would haunt him. Not that the boxer minded, he always earned his fair share of snuggles out of it and that in itself meant the world to him. It wasn’t like he got much sleep anyways.

“I was here right on time,” the engineer flashed him his watch, displaying Stanley was thirty minutes late with a look similar to what he gave Tate when it was past his bedtime, “you however…”

“Shit, is it 3 already?” Stanley tugged his tie loose as he made his way towards the door to the elevator, Fiddleford following in his wake.

“And for the record, I did not con a kid, I simply gave him an offer and he took it. It was a business agreement.”

The engineer snorted, pressing the button. The familiar mechanical whirl of the elevator filled the empty shop. The two stepped inside, coming to stand close together despite the large amount of space the elevator occupied. The conversation returned once the ground lurched downwards.

“Your hat,” Fiddleford pointed to the fez Stan forgot he was wearing, “the tassels are all tangled up.” He motioned for the boxer to come closer, Stanley leaning down the slightest bit for the engineer to pluck it off his head. He got to work, smaller fingers carefully detangling knots. Stanley stayed quiet for once, trying to stop himself from turning as red as his hat.

“You didn’t slick your hair back today.” Fiddleford noted, carrying on the conversation by himself. Stanley cleared his throat before answering.

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t really have time for much anything this morning, so I kinda just put my Pop’s old fez on.” So much for saving face. He tried to pat down his anti-gravity cowlick.

“I think it looks nice.” Fiddleford muttered, giving the hat back to its owner before moving away again. He changed the subject to hide the heat spreading across his face. “I caught the end half of your tour today.”

Stanley scoffed, “Oh really? Heh, I sure gypped some suckers, huh? Cheap imitations of the real thing. Of course, it’d kinda be stupid to bring actual monsters into the house.”

“It was… Creative.” Fiddleford nodded politely, “But I get the feeling if Stanford had been here to see what you’ve turned his house into he would be--” The engineer paused, wincing as the phrase ‘rolling in his grave’ almost slipped past his lips. He quickly substituted with a different phrase, “—he wouldn’t be too pleased.”

“Well then why don’t you ask him yourself?”

The elevator chimed, making up for the shocked silence that had suddenly fallen upon the smaller man. Mouth slack-jawed, he froze for a moment before hurrying after Stanley’s casual stroll from the open doors.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am. Tonight.”

“T-Tonight?” The engineer repeated incredulously, throwing a look over his shoulder at the humming machine the two had been slaving over for the past few months. He glanced back down, as if staring too long into its depths would break something inside of him again.

“But we haven’t even gone through precautionary measures! We still need to run a few tests, use a dummy, see if it will even power on without destroying the place. It could very well short-circuit.”

The boxer placed two hands on the smaller man’s shoulders.

“Yeah, but if you built it then it shouldn’t short out. You’re the best of the best.”

“Just because I’m a decent engineer doesn’t mean that everything will go smoothly. We need test runs, data—there are _so many_ variables! What if Bill comes back, or one of us gets sucked in when the barrier between worlds makes gravity thin? We don’t even have enough fuel.”

Stanley held up finger with a knowing grin, “Now there’s where you’re wrong.” He moved back, wheeling from out behind his desk something Fiddleford hadn’t noticed before. The boxer rapped on the metal barrel with a fist, the lack of reverberation telling him it was filled to the brim with—

“‘Toxic waste’?!” The engineer gasped, reading aloud from the hazard sign.

“How did you--? Why in the world--?!” He paused, eyes raking over his companion. “You didn’t get any on you, did you?”

The boxer rolled his eyes, “No, I’m not a complete idiot. I know this stuff will give me a third eye or whatever. But, it can also be used as fuel.” He pulled the red journal numbered 1 from his back pocket, “I was reading up on Ford’s diary and he was writing about this weirdo alien thing you two found to power the portal, and I realized the same power source you guys used can be replicated by toxic waste, practically right down to the chemical components. Those little green men were using their own as fuel. So I figured, hey, why not just use it as a substitution? The portal might be a little more unstable, but at least its running.”

Fiddleford looked absolutely stunned, eyes blinking tightly in disbelief, almost unsure of if this was a dream.

“You… You figured this out all on your own? Even the molecular structure?”

“I, uh…” The boxer scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I’ve been reading a lot of you two’s nerdy books recently. Ya know, just so I wouldn’t be completely useless to you while we tried to get my brother back.”

The engineer nodded numbly, looking from the barrel to the machine. He wasn’t so much shocked that Stan knew about chemical formulas, even enough so he could figure out what was in toxic waste. No, he knew Stanley was certainly more intelligent than others gave him credit for. What he was petrified about lied beyond the portal, beyond this dimension.

He wasn’t so sure this reunion was going to be a happy one, or that what they would unleash would be just Stanford.

“Don’t go mute on me now.” The boxer mumbled, waving a hand in front of his companion’s blank eyes. “You okay?” Fiddleford responded with a sigh, readjusting his glasses before changing the subject.

“Do I want to know _how_ you got your hands on that thing?”

“You know… I just found it.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.” The engineer said with a snort.

“Fine. I stole it.”

“What?”

“From the government.”

“ _What?”_

 _“_ Well I would have paid for it if I could even have bought the stuff.” Stanley held his hands up defensively, taking a step back from the furious look the smaller man had shot him. For such a thin, lanky guy, he sure packed a punch. But it wasn’t as if the government was selling illegal toxic waste like candy.

“No you wouldn’t’ve!”

“Eh, you got me there.”

“This is serious, Stan! What if you were followed,” Fiddleford breathed, eyes growing wide at the thought. The basement suddenly felt like the most vulnerable place in the world. “What if they learn about what we’re doing down here?”

“Relax. I know how to pull off a heist.” Rolling his eyes, the boxer answered stiffly. Stealing was as simple as breathing; it came naturally. And with the amount of times he had depended on thieving goods right from under peoples’ noses, he had mastered it like an art.

“So, that’s the good news.” He concluded.

“What’s the bad news?”

Stanley winced, not expecting the man to jump right to the throat, but Fiddleford had become too perceptive of his actions. He slowly made his way back to the barrel before pressing his palm flat against the cold top.

“This baby here is about 55 gallons.” Fiddleford nodded as Stanley sucked in another breath, eyes opting to lock onto the ground instead of the other man. “The portal takes about 100 gallons for what we need. So, to keep it open and stable for the amount of time to get Ford back… We’re going to need another barrel.”

Fiddleford cut him off immediately.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. There is not a ‘we’ here; I will _not_ steal from government officials. I don’t even like it when _you_ steal from _diners!_ ”

“Fidds, there’s no other way to power the portal that we know of. Doing research could take months, maybe years more. We need to get Ford back as soon as possible. I wouldn’t force you into this, you know that, but it’s a two person job.” Stanley tried to reason, the engineer’s body language closed and rigid.

“Why don’t you ask one of your shady friends?” The engineer practically spat the words.

“Because I already did. And I used up the last of my favors with the first barrel. Look, I have a plan—“

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah, and for your information it’s genius! The last site I hit up was in Arizona, but there’s another one just across the California border and it’s even easier to rob. I even have the night schedule for the guards. The place is far away enough so we won’t be followed and it won’t be suspicious. It’s fool proof.”

The engineer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Even if it was an outstanding pan, I have morals, Stan. I can’t just ignore them like you do. I’m not going to drop everything and help you pull a robbery.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t dire. Just please, Fidds, do me this one favor, and I’ll owe you one.” For good measure the boxer reached out and took the other man’s hand in his own.

“Please, he’s my brother.”

Fiddleford’s heart stuttered in his chest, Stanley’s pleading brown eyes boring into him. He sputtered, pulling himself away quickly to distance himself. He crossed his arms, turning away completely from the other man.

“No. I will _not_ get wrapped up in one of your heists. Just because you ask nicely doesn’t mean you can swindle me into helping you rob the government!”

\--

“I can’t believe you swindled me into helping you rob the government.”

“I didn’t swindle you.”

Fiddleford’s only reply was an exaggerated huff of breath. Stanley took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at the man in the passenger seat; the engineer sat stiff as a board, his head turned away from the boxer as he glared at passing road signs. With a gulp, Stanley’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. He hadn’t wanted to make Fiddleford tag along, it was a job for a convict, not someone as straight and narrow as the smaller man. But he had no other options.

He cleared his throat before speaking, “You know we passed the border a while ago.”

Fiddleford kept his gaze locked onto the desolate highway. 2 AM was the exact opposite of rush hour, the only oncoming lights scarring the darkness were that of streetlamps, each sliver of light they passed rolled over his face like a wave until it retreated back.

“Our exit is coming up soon, so we shouldn’t be too far away now.” The boxer tried again, putting on a smile. When the engineer didn’t respond, his grin slowly sunk down into a frown.

“Are you gonna give me the silent treatment the rest of the ride?”

Nothing.

Stanley set his jaw, pulling off to the side of the road. With a sigh, he put the car in park, unwilling to move from his seat as he leaned over to dig through the back of the car.

“What are you doing?”

“I see you’ve found your voice.” The boxer replied with a little too shortly, before thinking better than to continue using that tone. Fiddleford was angry, but complying; it was better than him demanding Stanley to take him home.

“I told you I have a plan,” he muttered, hands finding purchase on a wrinkled piece of graph paper on the back seat. Stanley pulled it towards himself as if he had just won a prize, grinning proudly as he smoothed it out over the center console. Lines met and parted, Stanley’s scratchy handwriting surrounding the sides of what looked to be a warehouse of sorts.

Fiddleford grasped the paper in his own hands, adjusting his glasses as he held it closer to his face, “Are these floor plans? How on earth did you get your hands on the layout to a heavily secured government warehouse?”

“Like I said, I know a few people. Not that they would help be my getaway driver or anything, just for a pretty penny that they would scope out the place.” He tapped a finger against the times he had written down, every path the guards walked on a regular basis timed and mapped. But the engineer didn’t pay much attention to that, he was still stuck on the previous sentence.

“Wait a second, am _I_ your getaway driver?”

“Yep. Told you the job wouldn’t be too hard, at least for you. All you gotta do is wait in the car. At the sign of any trouble I want you to gun it, even if I’m still inside. If you can shake them on the back roads then stick to the main highway, and that should take you right home.”

“You want me to abandon you?” Fiddleford’s tone made the idea seem almost unthinkable. Stanley had to laugh at that, the old Fiddleford would have fled from danger as fast as his legs would have carried him when push came to shove. The boxer started the car again, pulling back onto the road.

“I’m not gonna get caught in the first place, so don’t worry.” He took the grid paper back, folding it uncharacteristically neat and shoving it into his shirt pocket, “There will be about six guards. One at the main entrance, one at the exit, and four walking the perimeter. The janitor will have just left so they will be off their game. See? It’s an easy job, nothing to worry about.”

Fiddleford immediately found himself worried as the boxer pulled off-road and into the grass without so much as a turn signal. Stanley paused for a moment, getting used to the new bumpy surface before changing gears again.

The engineer’s hand flew up to grip the handle above his head, “What in Sam Hill are we doing?” Stanley snickered at his frightened face; so much for that adventurous spirit.

“We gotta go off road to get the best vantage point. Luckily, this baby’s got four wheel drive. It should be a walk in the park.” The car crept along, the boxer turning off his headlights as the forest got denser. Fiddleford held on tighter, making sure to alert him to _every single tree_ in their proximity. With a K-turn, Stanley parked the car, glaring lights shining from behind the thin tree line separating the Diablo with the facility.

Fingers snuck into the crease of the door handle, Stanley edging it open, wincing as if the small creak was a crack of thunder. He took a step out of the car before turning back to his companion, the man looking similar to a frazzled cat.

“I’ll be in and out before you know it.” He breathed, words so quiet the crickets drowned them out. The boxer shut the door, easing it into the frame until he heard the familiar click before creeping towards the lights. He peered through the bushes, getting a good scope of the place.

The building was gray, but not the appealing, calm sort, the kind bland enough to go hand with a doctor’s office. The warehouse was about what he had expected from his informants description; it was a boxy, squat building, windowless with two side doors not counting the one on the front entrance. The perimeter was surrounded by a fence, topped with barbed wire.

 _Easy enough_ , he thought to himself as he unzipped the black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t planning on scaling the thing, rather maneuvering through it. Wire clippers were essential, one of the few measure he had stored away in the bag.

“You’re not actually going to just chop up everything and rush in there, are you?”

Stanley jumped at the sudden voice, his hand clutching over his rapidly beating heart as his head whipped around to face the engineer crouched next to him.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“I thought you told me you had a good plan.”

“It is a good plan.” Stanley defended, “This is the only bump in the road. If I time it right then I should miss the guards. It’s almost their break. Besides, no one looks at the fence, they look for people trying to get through the fence.”

“This is sounding more and more like a suicide mission!” Fiddleford hissed, taking a firm hold of the boxer’s black sleeve. “I’m not letting you do this. There’s got to be a smarter solution than running head first into a government facility.”

“You’re going to stop me? Exactly how do you plan on doing that?” Stanley raised an eyebrow as the engineer grew silent. No answer, just as he had figured. He stood, moving for the schematics hanging out of his shirt pocket; Fiddleford pulled back on his hand.

“I can’t stop you, you’re too stubborn. But I’m not letting you go alone.”

All fell quiet for a moment, only the crickets and the faint noises of the generator from the warehouse below filling the empty air. Then Stanley cracked a smile. He handed the engineer the map.

“I don’t know if I’m the best influence on you, Fidds. This time next week, you’ll be a hardened criminal.”

“This time next week we’ll both be in a federal jail cell, if we aren’t shot on sight.” Fiddleford sighed, pulling open the creased paper.

He wished he could have distanced himself enough from the other man to be able to sit silently in the car, but he knew he would drive himself mad thinking of all the awful things that could be happening to the boxer. He wasn’t strong enough to save him, he knew that, but he would help in any way he could. Stanley Pines was all he had, and he himself was all the boxer had. They had to stick with each other.

Stanley gave the engineer a once over, making sure the plan was still a go. He felt his stomach give an involuntary twist. Fiddleford looked too innocent for this kind of thing; his blue eyes wide and anxious behind the slightly tilted glasses. The boxer felt or a moment as if he had tainted yet another person’s life with his presence before he shook the thought. He had no time for self-pity, there would be plenty of that for when he tried to sleep.

But now, it was time to take the final step forward to saving his brother.

“Ready?”

With a gulp, Fiddleford nodded.

“Stay low and stay quiet. Just follow my lead.”

Stan waited for the last flashlight to disappear around the corner before crouching on his haunches and moving past the final layer of cover. He motioned for the engineer to follow once the coast was clear. Fiddleford felt as though his heart was going to rip free from his throat as he watched the periodic change of lights, and the dim voices in the distance, a nasally laugh from behind the warehouse.

With a rush, he was hit with the fact that these people were human, just like him. Their demanding presences meaning certain doom had made them seem as frightening as the monsters back home. He was not made for this kind of work, every cell in his body screamed with tension as he dashed down the hill after the larger man.

“Be my lookout while I cut. Tell me when the next guard comes around the building.” The boxer leaned in close to whisper, Fiddleford nodding along with his words even if they seemed to be muffled by the buzzing in his mind.

Stanley made quick work of the first row, the sharp edges fitting neatly into the diamond-shaped gapes in the fence. His main concern was the noise, the snipping wasn’t exactly the quietest sound, or the most pleasant. Metal creaking against metal until it was finally snapped. The boxer worked fast, hands perspiring behind his gloves, the cold night air suddenly feeling hot and oppressive.

The second was more difficult, Stanley forcing himself to breathe steadily as he opened and closed the shears up the fence, parallel to the gash he has just finished. His eyes flicked up at the flashlight bouncing into view before he tore his gaze away and continued his work.

“There’s an officer coming around the corner.” Fiddleford warned, his voice shaking as he pushed on Stan’s shoulder.

The boxer cut the last link, ignoring his comment. The only thing left to do was connect the dots—or, well, wires.

“Stan.” He said a little sharper as the crunching footsteps of soles against gravel grew closer. He could see the guard now: tall, muscular, holding what was definitely a large gun. The man had rounded the corner, flashlight swinging lazily back a forth, unaware of the break-in. Fiddleford fought to quiet is shallow breaths, pressing a hand over his mouth.

“Stan, we need to get down.”

On the contrary, Stanley stood, getting a better angle at the horizontal section. The blades clamped against the wires as he snipped the first link.

_“Stanley.”_

“I got this.” The man hissed back as he cut another link. Fiddleford held his breath, eyes flashing from the boxer in plain sight, to the guard only twenty feet away, knowing that the next time the light arced, the spotlight would be focused on them.

The guard shined towards the building, paused, and then moved to view the fence.

Stanley hit the ground, the world pitching on its axis as something hard hit his side, knocking him off his feet. The boxer glared up at his assailant, catching a glimpse of the just as furious blue eyes above him before his vision was blinded by white light. There was a pause, an awful, silent moment the world stood still and the light did not move. Neither did the two men, pressed close to the ground and even closer together, not risking a single twitch.

And then the moment had passed; time moved again, the light passing on completing its arc. They hadn’t been seen.

The engineer steadily sat up, craning his neck to double check the guard was gone. From what he had timed, the next wouldn’t come for several minutes; they were in the clear. For a lulling second, Stanley hesitated to move, admiring the view of the engineer perched above him before clearing his throat. Fiddleford moved, the boxer could help but miss the weight, maybe if they had been in a safer place he could have enjoyed the moment longer, but he needed to get them moving.

He moved to snip the last few links before a curved, a not-exactly-rectangular-but-close shaped piece snapping out. The hole would be just large enough to fit them through, as well as the barrel they planned on smuggling out. Wordlessly, the boxer motioned for his companion to stay close, then ducked through the gap.

His sights were locked on the door, too focused to check before dashing to the building. Fiddleford trailed at this heels, there was no going back; now he was out in the open, panicked, worried, and at the same time, oddly exhilarated. It was the same nostalgic feeling he had when recovering memories of monster hunts; even they hadn’t been all unpleasant.

Stanley had paused in front of him, hunched over a keypad as he fumbled with the paper in his front pocket.

“Please tell me you know the code.” Fiddleford whimpered, the pit of his stomach dropping at the thought of being stranded out in the open. They were vulnerable. If they didn’t act fast, the guard would surely note the gap in the fence, as well as the trespassers.

“Relax, I have it right here.” The boxer grabbed the paper into the engineer’s open palms, turning away to face the keypad again, punching in the five digit code with a gloved thumb. Stanley stood back, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the machine to recognize the code. The light flashed green, just as Fiddleford heard footsteps approaching once again. The boxer wrenched the door open, practically falling inside as the engineer shoved past him.

They waited, frozen in place, listening intently.

When no sirens blared, and no voiced sounded, Stanley straightened his back, rolling his shoulders with a radiant smile.

“We got in.” He announced, the engineer at his side quickly shushing his loud voice. He rolled his eyes. “The walls are sound proof. A gun could go off in this room and the idiots outside wouldn’t notice. Now I just need to you to keep your eyes on your watch while I pick the right barrel. Got it?”

“Aren’t all the barrels the same?”

“Yeah, but I need to pick one they won’t immediately find, something inconspicuous in the back that won’t be missed. We need to be out of here by 2:33 and we can’t have these guys onto us so soon.”

“That gives us seven minutes.”

“It’ll be quick, I promise.” Stanley held his hands up reassuringly, walking side by side with the engineer into the storage area.

The main room of the warehouse was massive, the ceiling higher than even that of Northwest Mansion, large fluorescent lights hung from the rafters, glowing off of the recently waxed white flooring. Their shoes clicked across the spotless tiles, caked in mud from the walk through the forest. The facility was huge, and every inch of it was filled with barrels: blue, red, and black, all wearing a similar warning to the one the boxer had stolen earlier. The larger man turned down a seemingly random hallway, walking briskly to the final column among the endless rows.

Stanley tugged experimentally on a container on the bottom row, listening to the toxic liquid slosh around inside before muttering for the engineer to “Stay put.”

He returned a moment later, wheeling a red hand truck, the wheels emanating the slightest squeak from being used so frequently. They tugged off the thin layer of plastic holding the container in place, Fiddleford situating the hand truck underneath the barrel before the larger pulled it off.

Stanley flashed him a thumbs up and a grin. It was comforting, but something refused to let his heart sit still in his chest. The engineer returned the triumphant smile, but this all seemed very wrong.

When a guard walked past the end of the aisle, comprehension dawned on Fiddleford that he hadn’t checked on the time.

It was 2:35.

The two shared a mutual, mouth open in inaudible horror realization that they were trapped as the footsteps halted suddenly, then began to backtrack. The engineer’s feet stuck to the ground, as if invisible hands were holding him to the spot, every muscle in his body itching to get away.

“Fiddleford, run.” Stanley whispered, backing up as he stared down the hallway, past the hundreds of drums to the man rounding the corner. Fiddleford stayed in place, unable to drag himself away as he gazed mutely back at the boxer, then to the guard.

“Stay where you are.”

The man had a gun, the end of which was trained towards them. He adjusted his grip, finger inching towards the trigger.

Stanley held up his hands with a nervous laugh, “Uh, hello! We’re the annual inspectors just here to do a quick check up on the, um, toxicity. Is that a word,” he added the last part quieter, to the engineer at his side, who hurriedly nodded. “Yeah! Just checking everything out? Did your supervisor not tell you? Because that’s a common mistake--”

The two jumped, the engineer giving a small yelp as the guard fired a warning shot, the bullet soaring far above their heads. Stanley took a step back, eyes scanning for an escape route.

“Don’t move,” barked the man, taking steps closer to them. He was outnumbered, but obviously not outgunned.

“Buddy, listen,” the boxer started, pulling Fiddleford behind him with a broad sweep of his arm. “We don’t want no trouble. So why don’t you just lower the gun, and we’ll be on our way, like this never even happened. What d’ya say?”

This time the warning shot was much closer, clipping the edge of the boxer’s coat. His hands reflexively flew to the tear, cupping around his hip. His mind whirled, he had half a second to come up with a plan before he was Swiss cheese. It struck him before the man could reload and fire again.

Stanley used his momentum, slamming his shoulder into the towering shelves, hard.

It teetered for a moment, tilted back like a tree chopped in half, and with a low scraping noise that reverberated through their teeth, it pitched forward. The barrels at the top were the first to fall, diving fast as bricks in open air, one smashing at the feet of the guard. Stanley grabbed Fiddleford’s hand and fled, unable to pause at the man’s screams as he whipped around and dragged the engineer down the back alley.

His feet pounded against the tiled floor, eyes shifting to the clamber behind him. The first shelf had fallen, and in its descent it had plunged into the next shelf, and that shelf into the next, toppling like dominos as containers filled with toxins busted the same way a grape would under a shoe. His breath stuttered in his chest, an odd satisfaction blooming at the destruction he had caused.

The boxer must have gotten too caught up, because with a tug of the wrist, Fiddleford was in front now, pulling him along. They raced against the shelves, tumbling in time with the beat of their shoes. The opening was closing, the final shelf beginning to tilt as the engineer squeezed them through the passage, the boxer’s shoulder clipping the metal.

The first barrel dropped entirely too close, but far enough only to splash Stanley’s shoes. The remainder began to follow, the bottoms of the containers coming into sight as the shelf crashed against the wall to their right. The two were close; if they could just squeeze through this last passage they would make it to the main hall by the door, safely away from the toxic waste and from being crushed by metal.

But they were running out of time.

Fiddleford seemed to realize this, heart pounding in his ears as he glanced above them before he turned to look back at the boxer. The engineer’s face was scarred with horror, coming to the conclusion that they would not make it.

The barrel over them tilted forward.

Stanley set his jaw, the fear sparking something within him. With a deep breath he had caught up with the man in front of him and swept his arms around Fiddleford’s middle. The boxer’s pushed off against the ground, pitching the two of them forward through the air, making it out of the small, triangular opening just at the final barrel impacted where they would have been.

They two hit the ground, rolling across the main hall as they lost speed until they halted altogether. Stanley had landed on his side, heart still pounding unsteadily in his chest as he cracked an eye open, and then the other. Fiddleford was beside him, eyes squeezed shut and gasping in the very same fashion the boxer had been.

Stanley gently shook his companions shoulder. The engineer’s eyes flew open, taking in his surrounding before giving a quick once over to the man in front of him.

“Are we alive?” Fiddleford croaked, releasing his shaking grip from the man’s arm.

“I-I think we are.” Stanley sat up experimentally, looking the engineer over first before checking himself. No wounds, not a drop of toxic waste… His head snapped up to the shelves, all splayed out in an enormous game of dominos.

“We made it.” He said breathlessly, then a little louder, his eyes gaining their bright quality again, “We made it!”

“Were alive!” Fiddleford exclaimed as he was pulled to his feet by the larger man. The engineer put his hands on his head in disbelief; they hadn’t been crushed or shot or poisoned. “I can’t believe…” He trailed off, breaking into a giddy laugh. It was crazy, he shouldn’t be laughing, not after what they had just faced, but he couldn’t stop it from bubbling over.

And Stanley was hooting along, throwing his hands into the air before using them to pick Fiddleford off the ground for a spinning hug. The engineer laughed louder, his snorts filling the room as the boxer set him back down on the ground. They were both breathless, barely inches apart from each other and laughing like mad men, Stanley smiling so widely the muscles in his face hurt.

For a moment Fiddleford thought the boxer’s hand had slid into his hair, until the grip became too forceful. It wasn't Stanley. 

Fear flashed across his face before he was pulled back, screaming and clutching at the man wrenching a fistful of his hair. He heard the click of a gun, the metal cylinder pressed against his temple from behind.

The guard had not suffered a terrible fate, rather he had managed to pull himself out of the rubble to come after the men responsible. Stanley looked on, his chest tightening as he reached out a hand to the engineer. The guard pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Fiddleford’s head.

The engineer whimpered. Stanley fell back.

“Stand… Down.” The guard puffed, his face beet read and splotchy from mild acidic burns. He barred his teeth at the boxer, almost wolf-like as he took a few steps back, dragging the engineer in tow. Fiddleford’s hand tugged against the man’s arms; they only tightened around his throat.

Something like rage, but deeper, more fierce, flashed across Stanley’s eyes. He balled his fists at his sides, lip curling in fury. At that moment, the guard knew it would take more than this to get the man to stop, that even if he shot the smaller assailant struggling in his arms, he would be dead all the same. This man was the kind to personally rip your throat out and watch you choke on your own blood.

The guard felt suddenly unsure; Stanley took the moment to strike.

Fiddleford didn’t see what followed, only heard the commotion. A nose cracking against a fist, a gunshot, there was another crunch and a groan, and then he was being pushed away. He opened his eyes to view the guard flopped face-down on the floor. His wide eyes found Stanley in the middle of it, heaving for breath as he stood over the guard crumpled form, clutching onto his bicep.

“Stan?” He called quietly, shuffling forward to stand behind the boxer. His presence seemed to startle the larger, Stanley’s head whipping around to face him, his eyes still wild. When Fiddleford flinched away the boxer’s shoulders grew less rigid, mind processing there was no more danger.

The engineer’s eyes locked onto his arm, and the crimson that dripped from under his palm onto the spotless floor. A hand cupped over the boxer’s own as Fiddleford pulled it away to get a better look.

“You… You’re bleeding.” The engineer stated the obvious numbly, Stanley involuntarily wincing under his touch. After a moment, Fiddleford continued, “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“That can wait.” Stanley said lowly, pulling himself apart from the other man, turning towards the still standing rows of barrels. Thankfully for them, only one side of the room had collapsed. Unluckily, though, the boxer could hear the faint squeals of voices shouting from outside. Backup would arrive soon enough; they had to get what they came for and leave, immediately.

“Stan, you got shot.”

“Don’t you hear that?” He asked, pausing to point towards the door before picking a handcart at random and rolling it away from the wall it was leaned against. “More of those guys are gonna be here if we don’t move. We can fix everything up when we’re miles away from here.”

He wedged the handcart under the barrel with enough force to send a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder. The boxer winced with a hiss, holding his palm up to stop his companion as the man made a move to help him. Stanley could do this on his own, he wasn’t weak, and his pride was at stake. He could power through it.

Soon enough they were back at the side entrance, Fiddleford opening it just a crack to peer outside. The coast was clear, all the shouting and wild, flailing lights were originating from the other side of the warehouse. The door shut behind them the very same moment the guards broke through the opposite corridor. By the time they had found the man passed out on the floor, Fiddleford and Stanley had already reached the forest, hustling through the trees.

They hoisted the container into the backseat just as the back door bust open, men barking orders every which way. Fiddleford shot the boxer a look of dread, and Stanley returned it; they were working on borrowed time. The engineer clambered behind the wheel, the other for once not complaining, his upper arm ached and burned as if it was bathed in flames.

Fiddleford surprised both of them with his lead foot pressed hard against the gas pedal, the two peeling out towards the backroads.

“Just keep on the main highway, they won’t expect you there,” Stanley breathed laboriously, carefully working his jacket off to get a better look at the wound. Half of the white muscle shirt was stained scarlet with blood; the first thought that rose to his mind was not of how much blood he had lost, but of how impossible it was going to be to wash such a stain out of his favorite undershirt. _At least the wound is clean_ , he thought absentmindedly. The bullet had missed bone and gone out cleanly through the other side of his arm.

Fiddleford almost veered off the lane when he caught sight of the boxer’s arm.

“What?” The boxer asked, leaning his face against the cool glass; he had broken out into a sweat. “It’s fine.”

“That certainly doesn’t look fine.” He said through clenched teeth, voice strained. As if he didn’t have enough grey hairs from worrying over the Pines, by the end of the day he was sure his head would be fully white.

“Look, just put twenty miles between you and the border and we’ll pull over someplace secluded, alright? We need more distance.”

The twenty minutes came slowly, Fiddleford glancing into the rear mirror to see if they had been followed so frequently that he became more familiar with the road behind him than he had been with most of his school peers. Every nail biting second that ticked away was a new opportunity for them to be caught and captured. Meanwhile, Stanley occupied himself by turning his coat into a makeshift bandage, wrapping it tightly around the bullet wound. It had stopped bleeding as badly; he could almost feel the blood congealing beneath his split open flesh.

Fiddleford pulled down the dirt road, paying the dead end sign no attention as the end of the road came to a fenced ledge, overlooking the valley below. It looked as if at some point the place had been cleared out, considered for housing before being abandoned completely. The car halted, Fiddleford tossing a final look behind them before moving urgently.

“Where’s your medical kit?”

“Trunk.” Stanley groaned, the pain of the wound finally getting to him. At first it was a sharp, twisting, and constant. Now, it was duller, a pulsing ache that ebbed and flowed, flaring up again without warning. The boxer heard the trunk pop open, too focused on keeping his head pressed against the cool glass as some solace from the pain. The passenger side door opened.

“What?” He mumbled.

“I need you to get up so I have room to work on your arm,” the engineer stated gently, guiding Stanley out of the car. The boxer grumbled something under his breath, frowning as he stood, cradling his injured arm before settling on the still warm hood of the Diablo.

Fiddleford perched himself on the other side, the first aid kit clicking between them as the plastic hit the metal, the top swinging open to display the myriad of supplies inside. He sorted through it with a keen eye, finding what was necessary from what was not; it would be just enough to get the boxer by.

Tugging timidly on the coat, he took care to unwrap the makeshift gauze at a snail’s pace. Stanley sat rigidly still, quiet except for the sharp intakes of breaths as the engineer grazed over the puncture. The night air was miserably cold on his open wound; a shiver raked down his spine. The boxer felt as though his arm had been hollowed out, as if he himself was were open and exposed.

“Well, it’s clotting, so that’s a good sign. You were right about it being a clean cut, it seems to have only gone through muscle tissue.” Fiddleford’s thumb pressed against the slow trickle of blood as he wiped the area surrounding the entry clean.

“Did you just admit I was right about something? Huh, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

He earned a scowl from the engineer; apparently, not even taking a bullet would stop Stanley’s sarcasm.

“There’s a first time for me doctoring a bullet wound too, so I suggest you stop squirming before I ‘accidently’ prod you with some tweezers.” Fiddleford’s threat was only half meant, the corners of his mouth pulled tight in worry. The other man had lost a good amount of blood; it was a relief the boxer was present enough to joke.

He plucked a white bottle from the unorganized kit, unscrewing the child’s lock on the top before dabbing it against a cotton ball. Stanley looked on, fascinated as the white changed to orange, staining even the tips of the engineer’s fingers.

“This…” Fiddleford pushed up his glasses to the bridge of his nose, eyes glancing towards the boxer sympathetically, “will not be pleasant.”

“What do you mean it won’t be-- Ah!” Stanley gave a short scream, jerking up involuntarily as he latched onto the engineer’s free arm. He shut his eyes tightly, the iodine bubbling through his wound. The boxer forced himself to take steady, heaving breaths, his teeth clenched tight.

“Give me a warning next time.” Stanley gritted out, loosening his grip on the smaller man as the pain began to ebb away to a faint buzzing.

“Sorry, I thought this would make it go by faster.” Fiddleford paused what he was doing to shoot the man an apologetic look. He put a hand over the boxer’s cheek reassuringly, before using it to move his sweaty hair back from his face. Stanley cracked an eye open.

“Is it over?” He croaked, glancing to his orange stained arm.

“Almost. I just need you to move here so I can get at the other side.” The smaller took hold of his arm, angling it up as the engineer scooted closer on his knees.

“Is it gonna hurt again?” It was almost like doctoring a little kid; the engineer felt his heart twinge.

“Not as bad, I promise.”

Fiddleford dabbed cautiously at the wound. The boxer didn’t jerk back this time, only the hold on the smaller man’s arm increased. They continued this way for a while, the engineer dabbing and pausing to make sure everything was fine, apologizing profusely every time, while Stanley fought to control his breathing, concealing how much pain he truly was in.

The engineer sat back, reaching for the gauze.

“Stan? It’s over. I just need to wrap it up and then we can go home.”

“Okay.”

“You can go rest and then Stanford will be out of the portal before you know it.”

“Yeah,” he cracked a smile at that one, “He’ll be back again. We actually pulled this off.” Fiddleford only hummed in response, pinning the gauze. He had fallen quiet, eyes starring unblinking into the dark forest.

“You ‘kay?”

The engineer rolled his eyes, the question sounded odd coming from someone who had just been shot.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it. I’m just still… reeling from it all. It got bad out there, and I know I don’t remember much about our monster hunts, but things hardly ever went that south before.”

“Yeah, well none of the forest things ever carried guns before. Or held you hostage. Well, one did, but it wasn’t like this. And I made that Shapeshifter _pay.”_ Fiddleford bit his lip, the old incident bringing back unwanted memories. But what they had been through tonight hadn’t been much different. He had let his guard down at the worst time possible, and the boxer had been the one to pay for it.

“Stanley, could you do me a favor?” He asked, voice hardly a whisper.

“You know I’d do anything for you.”

“That’s- that’s the point actually. I want you to stop rushing into everything. You can’t keep putting others before yourself, especially in places like this. I mean, you took a bullet for me. Tonight, if you had died…” Fiddleford gulped, unable to complete the sentence.

“But I didn’t. And I got us both out safe and relatively unharmed.”

“This,” the engineer gestured to the wrapped wound, blood beginning to cloud the white bandage, “is what you call ‘unharmed’?”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we? We made it out with only a few things going wrong and now we can move on in our research.”

“But it wasn’t safe!” Fiddleford’s voice had risen in volume, “You always put others before yourself and- and one day you’re going to die because of it! Because you tried to save someone else, you’re going to end up in a ditch somewhere.”

The engineer stopped himself, eyes meeting the boxer’s, “Doesn’t that frighten you?”

Stanley sat up straighter, his eyebrows furrowing, “Not in the slightest.”

“You can’t always be a hero, Stan. You can’t keep throwing yourself into these situations spontaneously. Do you know how lost I would be without you?” The engineer’s shoulders sagged at the admission. He tried to keep his voice from wobbling.

“Fidds, you don’t get it.” Stanley looked away from his companion, contemplating his next words.

“Then explain it.”

“There are some things in life you have to put before yourself. There are people worth fighting for.” He took a deep breath to steady his voice, “ _You_ are worth fighting for. Always.”

Fiddleford fell silent, eyes wide as he stared back into the Stanley’s own. Then he inched forward.

Trembling hands found the boxer’s face in the effulgence of the night sky, two hearts beating entirely too fast as the distance separating them grew shorter and shorter. Their lips met softly, the two parting in shock, before coming together again with more passion, a warm, vivid contrast to the cooling car engine underneath them, and the even icier wind. Fiddleford clutched onto the boxer’s face, as if he could hold time still and memorize every detail of the moment. Surprising, even to himself, he wanted to remember. An odd feeling worked its way into his chest, spreading to his mind.

The engineer pulled back suddenly, pupils darting back and forth, eyes open wide in confusion. He pressed a hand to his temple with a grimace, pressure building between his ears.

“What’s wrong?” Stanley slurred, eyes half lidded, palms pressed against the other man’s lower back. It was unfair for all the time they had spent apart, that the kiss had ended so quickly. He wanted so badly to pull the smaller back in, kiss him senseless until they weren’t just two broken people anymore.

“M-My head… Feels wrong.”

Stanley blinked, sobering up, “Wrong? Wrong how?” The question stopped short as a ribbon of red cascaded down over Fiddleford’s lips.

“Fidds, your nose is bleeding.”

The engineer gingerly brought a hand to his nose, pulling back to eye the scarlet blood before clamping his hand over the lower half of his face. He held his breath and waited. And waited.

“I’m not—why am I not fainting?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The boxer said, concerned gaze scanning his companion. He let his hands graze the engineer’s skin, shifting from his back to his hips before pulling away.

“C’mon, let’s head back to my place. I’ll drive.”

Fiddleford didn’t have the energy to argue, feeling suddenly drained and the tiniest bit dizzy. The pressure had gone, as if suddenly pieces of a puzzle had been snapped back into place and his mind was the most peaceful it had been in a long time. Now that the void was full, he was overcome with the urge to sleep.

He climbed into the passenger seat, giving a small smile in thanks as Stanley handed him a tissue. The boxer returned it with a similar grin, the engineer’s stomach doing flips at the unguarded look. It wasn’t long before he had fallen asleep, curled up against the car door as the other man kept a close watch on the highway, and on his companion.

When they had reached their destination, the small cabin in the familiar woods of Gravity Falls, Stanley almost didn’t want to wake the other man up. He hadn’t had a single fit, the most tranquil sleep he knew the engineer had had in a long time.

He opened the passenger door as quietly as he could and gently shook Fiddleford’s shoulder. The man groaned in response, curling up tighter in on himself.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Stanley muttered aloud to himself, scooping up the stirring engineer in his arms.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep.” As if to spite him, Fiddleford slowly opened his eyes, rubbing his hands over them as he was lifted out of the car.

“Where are we?”

“The Shack.” After a pause, the engineer nodded in understanding, before pressing a warm cheek against the boxer’s neck, resting his head. Stanley trudged through the thin layer of snow, more frost-like than soft and malleable. He stopped at the porch steps to readjust his hold of the man in his arms before stepping up the first stair.

“‘The Murder Hut’ is a terrible name.”

“Oh really now?” Stanley grumbled, miming as if he was about to drop the engineer into the snow. With a muffled laugh and a weak push, Fiddleford held on tighter.

“Yes. It sounds intimidating but not mysterious enough. We already call it the Shack, just change the adjective.”

The boxer’s only reply was a curt grunt. He had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. Ticket sales would probably go higher, it would attract a younger audience. Stanley opened the door, sidestepping inside to fit both of them.

“You’ve been awake for two minutes and you’re already insulting me. No ‘thank you for carrying me inside, Stan’, or a ‘wow, you’re such a generous person for lugging my ass through the snow, Stan’.” He did his best impression of Fiddleford’s accent, falling short of the real thing. It seemed to rouse more of a giggled response than a vexed one as he placed the engineer on the couch.

When he moved to go, the smaller man sat up.

“Oh no, you go back to sleep. You need it. I gotta go get the barrel and pour it in the portal, and then I’ll come join you. Okay?” Stanley slowly pushed the engineer back down, the man making no fight to rise again.

The boxer left again, taking the handcart he had snatched on the previous heist out the door with him. He returned with the container, riding the elevator down in solitude before reaching the dark lab. When the doors opened, Fiddleford was waiting for him, pulling a lab coat over his button-down.

“I thought you were going back to sleep.” Stanley said with a sigh, wheeling the barrel to the control panel.

Fiddleford shrugged, “It’s not that easy.” Then he changed the subject, “Besides, you need me to help turn on the portal. It’s a two man job; that’s how it was designed.” The boxer said nothing, knowing it was true. He snapped on his missing twin’s glove, feeling suddenly small as the extra digit hung uselessly; another reminder how he would never be able to fill Ford’s shoes—or, gloves.

He turned his back to the other man, driving a crowbar between the lid and the barrel of the toxic waste container, snapping the top off. Behind him he could hear the always present growl of the portal, growing louder with every click of the console. Fiddleford preoccupied himself with flipping through the first journal, Stanley busied himself by emptying the canister.

“How do we know when it’s ready?” The boxer asked between labored breaths, steadily pouring the toxic waste with a skilled hand. “Does the journal even say it?”

“With everything set up the way it is, you need to stop pouring when the liquid starts bubbling. Then a whole reaction is set off and the way the monitor is set up, it should initialize a countdown on its own.”

Stanley grimaced, wracking his brain. He hadn’t remembered reading that part, and he had scanned every last one of Ford’s nerdy words, cover to cover.

“Is that even in the book?” He asked. Fiddleford looked befuddled, hand halting over the lever.

“No… It isn’t. That’s in the third journal.” He put the hand to his head, feeling jumbled. Before Stanley could comment again, the room was bathed in green light, the liquid in the tubes boiling. Fiddleford slowly pulled down on the level, watching it glide before letting go as the overhead monitor flashed on.

“‘Event initialized’?” Stanley read aloud, watching as the numbers clicked down. “Twenty hours?”

“Twenty hours and your brother will be home.”

The boxer looked absolutely giddy.

“Really? Just twenty hours?”

“Yes, if my calculations are correct. He’ll be home by tomorrow. Let me just double check everything and--” The engineer stopped in his tracks, blinking in confusion as he spotted his old laptop, and the code in blocky, green numbers.

“Those aren’t the right coordinates.” He said slowly, as if he himself was confused about the arrangement.

“Oh, but you can just type it in and fix it, right? Tell me we don’t have to go over this whole process again.”

“No, we don’t. It’s easy to change them. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“I-I remember them.”

The boxer was completely lost. He snapped off the gloves, moving to stand closer to the engineer to shoot him a confused look. “I repeat: _what?_ ”

“We had been testing with the same coordinates for a while, getting a feel of the dimensions. When I put it together I-I typed in a few new numbers. But I didn’t do that until the day I quit.”

Stanley’s eyes grew wide as he grabbed onto the engineer’s shoulders.

“Are you telling me, that you--”

“I remember everything.” Fiddleford gave a short laugh, dragging his palm through the gray streak in his hair before meeting Stanley’s eyes. “It’s all back.”

“You remember me?” Stanley blurted out, head shaking in disbelief, mouth curled into the biggest grin the engineer had ever seen.

“I remember you,” he was grinning just as brightly, and louder this time repeated, “I remember you!”

Stanley was a blur, moving so fast Fiddleford barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he was being pulled into a lung-crushing hug. The engineer had just enough time to secure his arms around the boxer’s neck before his feet were pulled off the ground. Swept up in the moment of clarity and each other, Fiddleford threw his head back and laughed, tears squeezing out of his eyes. The boxer engraved as much of it as he could to his memory; it was the most beautiful sound.

When his feet hit the ground again, the engineer wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm, the laughter fading to nothing more than quiet, breathless giggles. It was such an odd thing to remember, suddenly having all the gaps filled without a huge realization that left him gasping and the world spinning. He remembered as if he had stumbled upon his memories, like blowing dust off a picture frame; they had been there, ironically enough, he just hadn’t remembered when they had first returned.

“It was the nosebleed wasn’t it?” Stanley asked, his broad form still pressed against the engineer’s smaller frame. “That happened when you remembered with the gun, only you didn’t pass out this time. So maybe there were no more blanks to be filled.”

Fiddleford nodded; the boxer’s hypothesis was as good as his. At the moment, he was feeling a little overwhelmed, his mind searching through the missing months, hours upon hours flooding back. Not only that, but it was hard to think standing so close to the other man. He craned his head upwards, catching Stanley’s gaze studying him

“Something on your mind?” The boxer’s joke broke his train of thought. His memory was there, now it was just a matter of jogging it. He remembered their previous closeness on the roof top so many nights ago and the pleasant months that had followed, being held like he was now, the taste of tea on their lips and twisted sheets.

He wanted to taste again.

The engineer’s hands moved from their place on the other’s shoulders upwards, fingers sliding through the sensitive hairs at the base of the boxer’s skull. All Stanley could manage was a small, “Oh,” before he understood quite clearly.

It wasn’t so much of the engineer drawing him down like the last time, or as swift. The kiss was a steady build, hands moving along familiar curvatures, lips brushing together tentatively before Stanley muttered, “Fuck it,” and pulled the other deeper. Fiddleford breathlessly returned the gesture.

They moved slowly, the engineer feeling as if every second he spent in the embrace the more the little details returned to him. The lips parting his own had given him countless lazy, half-asleep kisses when he woke up from nightmares. The hands pushing up the front of his shirt had been everywhere at once, and then vanished along with the man himself. Fiddleford blinked as if woken from a trance. He slowly pulled back.

“You left.”

Stanley blanched. He had been expecting this conversation, just not at the moment. The boxer went to rub the back of his head in a nervous gesture, but didn’t get very far when he realized his hands were still up the engineer’s shirt.

“To be fair, I did come back.” He said with a sheepish smile, running his thumbs over the other’s ribs. “I didn’t really have another choice except to leave.”

“That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” Fiddleford joked, the boxer could see in his eyes he wasn’t serious. They had met again, that was all that mattered.

Stanley took that as a challenge, letting his mouth do the apologizing as he leaned down to press his lips to the engineer’s neck. The man made an odd noise somewhere between surprise and pleasure, the boxer unable to halt his laughter, muffling it against the hollow of Fiddleford’s throat. He resurfaced, pressing a quick peck to the man’s lips before stepping back.

Glancing up at the forgotten countdown, Stanley noted, “So, we got 19 hours and 45 minutes until Ford gets back.” The engineer knew what answer the other wanted from him as Stanley practically purred the words, “How should we spend it?”

“Alone together.” Fiddleford answered, taking off his lab coat and hanging it over his desk before walking to the elevator. He paused at the sliding door, throwing a smile over his shoulder and motioning for the boxer to hurry up.

Stanley ran faster to catch the elevator than he ever had before.

\--

Fiddleford had reached a new pinnacle of cuddling, Stan had noted. The smaller man’s body was entirely perched on top of the boxer, using his chest as a pillow, their legs still carefully woven together. Stanley sighed, the back of his head hitting the pillow, his arms tightening around the man pressed against him. Fiddleford didn’t weigh much, so it only made his breathing slightly more difficult, which, he would deal with, if just for the sake of the other’s sleep cycle.

He watched the man’s eyes move behind his eyelids, long lashes shifting as he squinted his face in his sleep. Stanley wondered if even in his dreams, the engineer needed glasses. Fiddleford muttered something in his sleep, the boxers cue to wake him from what he knew must be a nightmare.

Stanley had hardly moved his hands an inch from where they had been resting at the base of the engineer’s bare spine before the man jolted in his sleep. The boxer felt all the air be pushed out of his lungs as Fiddleford suddenly bolted upright.

“Oof, that’s fine. Just knee me right in the crotch…”  Stan breathed out, fingers clenching against the sheets. “Not like I need that or anything.”

“’M sorry.” Fiddleford said, voice thick with sleep. The boxer couldn’t bring himself to be upset over it, not when the engineer’s accent was that adorable. Instead he sighed, rising up to meet the man sitting in his lap.

With their two inch height different eliminated, Stanley took the opportunity to brush back the engineer’s mussed hair. Fiddleford hummed softly, eyes becoming more alert when the man’s hand came to rest on his cheek. The boxer pressed their foreheads together, moving to playfully bump their noses together before tilting his head and bringing the other into a slow kiss. Lips settled back into old routines, gently sliding against each other. It had been far too long, Stanley noted, but it was far too late for them to continue in a different fashion. Ford would be back in a mere matter of hours. The thought made him almost dizzy with excitement. Maybe that would finally be enough for his brother.

When the boxer pulled away, Fiddleford blinked, momentarily bemused, before deciding Stanley shoulder would make a good enough pillow and resting his head. Arms enveloped him in their usual resting spot, his own hands pressing against the boxer’s chest, but in no means pushing him away.

Stanley broke the silence, the engineer feeling the man’s deep voice vibrate in his throat before he offered up an odd question.

“Do you remember when we thought we were just friends?”

“You mean a few hours ago?” Fiddleford answered the question with a question, lips moving against the boxer’s neck as he spoke. Stan’s hand tensed on his back; the engineer had to fight the urge to snicker, filing that bit of information away for later.

“Mmn, not that. I mean like a year ago. Shit, has it been a year? Ugh, I am getting old.” Stanley groaned, scooting them back until he was against the headboard of the bed.

“Oh, hush, I’m older than you. And yes,” Fiddleford paused, thinking over the words that still felt foreign on his tongue, “I do remember. I used to get all flustered when you would come down to the lab--”

“You _still_ do.”

“Yes, but I know how to work through it now. I used to just completely fumble whatever I was working on, and Stanford always had these snide jabs making fun of me. My productivity must have been down at least 30%.”

Stanley scoffed, “You calculated it? Geez, what a nerd.”

He felt hands lightly shove against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he quickly corrected, finding himself rambling, “I used to make up excuses to touch you. Like just anything, I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I felt like I needed to hold you close. And after the initial panic was over, Ford managed to get through to me. Oh, and if you think you’re pathetic, I went to Ford for dating advice. _Ford._ He’s never even touched a boob much less gotten this far.”

The engineer laughed at that one, picturing Stanford Pines, who had once had four girls slap him in a single semester, giving the boxer advice.

“Actually, to be truthful, and I rarely am, the advice wasn’t half bad. I mean, we never would’ve had our first kiss without him, as much as he _is_ a pain in the ass.”

Fiddleford said nothing. He had put the pieces together, and his friendship with the scientist was beyond strained. The engineer didn’t want him dead, and he frequently clung to what good memories he had. But the bad ones, of him refusing to shut down the portal even after what Fiddleford had seen, the deals he had made with a demon behind their backs, the screaming match outside his apartment door when he was half insane… He shuddered to think what would happen when the scientist finally arrived back home, especially with what had happened between him and Stan.

“You okay?”

The engineer nodded with a grimace, maneuvering himself off of the larger man’s lap and back onto the bed. Stanley fell quiet, eyes upturned to the ceiling as he leaned back against the headboard.

“What are you thinking about?” Fiddleford asked after a while of strange silence as he pulled the covers back over himself. It was uncanny for the boxer to remain quiet for so long.

“I’m just thinking about Ford.” Stanley’s countenance became more pensive, some akin to excitement flashing across his face. “He’ll be here in a few hours and it will be just like old times again. He can’t stay mad at me forever, you know? Maybe this is my way at fixing things.”

The engineer frowned, hiding his face by turning away from the other man. He hushed his breathing to hear the faint, steady hum of the machine in the basement. He could picture the countdown clock in his head, clicking away the seconds to the inevitable.

Sixteen hours and then Stanford Pines would return.

The engineer couldn’t help but think back to so many months ago, when he had received the warning from Bill Cipher.

_Time’s up._

The bed creaked as Stan settled back down under the covers, curling his body around the smaller man. Even as he felt the boxer press a quick kiss to his neck, and the arms wrapping around him to pull him closer, Fiddleford couldn’t shake the impending feeling that something was going to go horribly, irreversibly wrong.

Sixteen hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anyone else worried about our impending doom on Febuary 15th? I can't promise to finish this before then, but this fic will end near that time. 
> 
> Next chapter will be... not the happiest. But everyone's favorite angry scientist will be back! As always, thanks for reading. Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed. And one last thing, [here's my tumblr](sgt-vandoodle.tumblr.com) if anyone would like to contact me or tag me in anything related! Thanks again.


	19. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worst as a few familiar faces reappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, half way through the homestretch. 
> 
> No trigger warnings, just lots of bickering and swearing and crying. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Fiddleford was being hunted. Sweat clung to his brow and stung the blue eyes below as the engineer whipped his head around to look for the pursuer. Nothing but darkness was nipping at his heals, threatening to engulf the entire thicket. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he paused, for only a moment to catch his breath. The trees fell dark, unknown; the forest could be full of claws or teeth or everything in-between that was as equally deadly.

The man started again, rhythm off as his lungs burned for oxygen, a pounding headache threatening to overcome him and split his skull down the middle. Birds fled from the twisted branches, black as night and putrefying what little light he could see as they too seemed desperate for escape. He found himself blindly fleeing, feet beating faster against the frozen ground as the roar reverberated from somewhere behind.

He was quick, but not enough, talons gripping to the back of the lab coat as he was hoisted into the air like nothing more than a dummy to a portal. Recoiling against the hot air breathed into his face, bile rose in the back of his throat.

Eyes open, he found it was not a monster bringing about his demise, rather a human, one he knew well.

Fiddleford gasped, springing upright in bed. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as he pulled his knees tightly to his chest.

Bill Cipher had not contacted him in weeks, not since Stanley began to keep a close proximity to keep nightmares away. But this, he wasn’t even sure if it was the dream demon’s doing; Bill was too proud not to show up and personally taunt the engineer.

This seemed more ominous. He shuttered, looking to his side to find the bed empty and cold.

“Stan?” He called, voice still tinged with panic. When there was no response he frowned, pulling the covers off before stepping onto the chilled floor. Maybe the boxer had had a nightmare of his own. The engineer gathered his clothes, the air too cool for bare skin, stepping into his pants from the previous night before opting to pull on one of the boxer’s shirts.

Opening the bedroom door, Fiddleford peered down the staircase before he called a little louder, “Stanley?”

Again, he paused, holding his breath for any signs of movement from inside the house. The floorboards creaked under his added weight, the engineer’s socks scuffling across the wooden panels. He trekked down the stairs, the solitude of the empty Shack tethered him to the silence; to break it would be like to demolish a sanctuary.

Fiddleford glanced out the front door as he passed by; the red Diablo sat still as a statue outside, the same place it had been parked the night before. So the boxer _was_ nearby, the question was ‘where’? The engineer started to move on before he caught a glimpse of movement.        

“You’re up early,” he grinned a little wider as he opened the screen door, eying the man pacing up and down the span of the porch before repeating the pattern. Stanley hardly glanced up as he continued, a cigarette in his lips as he stalked back and forth, desperate to catch solace.

“Didn’t sleep.” The curt notice was punctuated by the bounce of the cigarette between each syllable. “It’s not your fault,” the man quickly added when he saw Fiddleford’s face fall, “I just don’t do well with waiting.”

“I’ve noticed.” The engineer replied, nodding to the cigarette as he let the door fall shut behind him, the screen screeching as it closed. “You didn’t really smoke before you left. I always thought it was more of—“

“Ford’s habit? Yeah, well, I just sorta picked it up again in his absence.”

“He won’t be absent for much longer.”

Stanley froze at the words, eyebrows furrowing downwards.

The boxer turned on his heel.

“Do you wanna go drive around?” He blurted out, nervously flicking his tongue over his bottom lip, the suddenness of the outburst making the smaller’s eyes grow wide.

“It helps me think. Plus, I don’t think I can do with being cooped up here for the next six hours just sitting on my ass. I need to do something.”

“Where are we driving to?” Fiddleford asked, shaking his head slowly; the man was about as capricious as the couch cushion he was leaning against.

“Does it matter? I don’t know, let’s just go where the road takes us.”

The engineer bit his bottom lip, eyes downcast. He found himself fond of the idea, up and leaving his responsibilities, at least even for a little while. A vacation would be the perfect refuge; he hadnt had one in years. But he certainly didn’t do well with spontaneity; leaving without a well-organized plan was almost unfathomable.

Stanley seemed to feel the uneasy shift in the air, “Look, we won’t go out of the county. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Car keys jingled in the boxer’s pocket as his fist closed around them.

Fiddleford sighed, “Alright, but we can’t stay out too long. I have to pick up Tate later tonight, and check the portal over again, and then Stanford will be back soon, and--” Stanley cut him off, the engineer giving a tiny squeak as he was tugged off the couch and lead to the car.

\--

4 hours.

Stanley tapped his hands restlessly along the wheel. He wasn’t the best at mathematics, but simple subtraction was easy to accomplish. The ten hours Fiddleford had slept and the two they had been driving around left a meager amount of time until his brother was back. He eased on the breaks, hoping the slow creep of the wheels would quell the frenzy he was working himself into. He turned the radio down, Micheal Stipe’s voice becoming no more than a whisper deep in his speakers.

“Did you ever travel much, Fidds?”

The engineer blinked, suddenly awoken from the thoughtful stupor he had rested in for the last stretch of the ride, “Not much,” he admitted. “I know the Midwest fairly well, but beyond that and Oregon, no.”

“I-I’ve been thinkin’…” The boxer started lowly, taking his eyes off the road for only a moment to look the engineer in the eye. “I think we should leave Oregon for a while, leave Gravity Falls.” He watched as the engineer’s eyebrows rose higher and higher on his forehead.

“Didn’t you ever think about actually leavin'? I know you used to threaten me and Ford about it, but did you ever want to go through with it? All I’m sayin’ is, if we have the portal fixed up and get my brother back, then there’s no reason to stay anymore.”

“Is this about Stanford?” Fiddleford asked slowly, as if he were slinking around forbidden territory, “Are you afraid of what might happen when he gets back?”

“Afraid?” Stanley said sharply, before losing the tone and scoffing. “Of Ford? No.”

“Of what then? Because to me it seems an awful lot like you’re trying to avoid something.” When the boxer sat in silence rather than answer, Fiddleford continued, “You know it’s okay to be afraid, right? Fear takes strength to be scared in the first place--”

“I’m not _afraid_.”

“Then why are we running?”

Stanley let out a slow stream of air. He pulled into a vacant lot, parking the car as he tried to make sense of his muddled thoughts.

“I want to bring Ford with us.” At the sentence, the engineer grew rigid in the seat next to him. “When he gets back I want us all to leave. Maybe we can go out to the coast, find a nice beach, maybe a sailboat, and stay there for a while. Just something peaceful for once, ya know? I’m sick and tired of all these monsters.”

“Gravity Falls is my home, now.” Fiddleford frowned, “Where else am I supposed to go? I can’t just up and leave, I have Tate to look after. And besides,” the engineer dropped his gaze to his feet, “depending on his attitude once he comes back, I don’t think I would like to stay in your brother’s company for that long anyways.”

The boxer fidgeted in his seat.

“Fidds, I know you two aren’t exactly on the best of terms at the moment, but I’m sure once he gets out of the portal and sees how hard we’ve worked on getting him back, things will change.”

“He's not going to be very pleased, Stanley.” The engineer insisted, eyes turning to the boxer sadly when he felt the hand on his thigh. "He's not the Ford you knew; I watched him... change."

“At least give him a chance.”

“Stanford and Bill were partners!” Fiddleford blurted out, eyes going wide when he realized what he had said. The boxer’s slowly retracted his hand.

“What?”

“They were friends, allies. Bill must have helped Ford build the portal. When he showed me the schematic, I had never seen anything like it before, and I study advanced blueprints for a living!” The engineer’s voice fell quieter, “Do you remember when he would get in one of his ‘moods’ and get an increasingly darker sense of humor? He would just suddenly adopt a rude quality? I believe,” he took a deep breath, “Bill Cipher was possessing your brother.”

“Cipher and Sixer were in cahoots?” The boxer said incredulously, not wanting to believe the words coming out of his mouth. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “No, he wouldn’t be dumb enough—“

“Ford practically worshipped him!” Fiddleford insisted, eyebrows furrowing. “He chose a demon’s word over mine and got us into this whole mess. I can’t—I _won’t_ trust him again. I can’t trust anyone who’s been possessed by Bill, even for a second. I don’t trust myself half the time.”

“Fidds,” the boxer started empathetically, leaning in closer to put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“You don’t get it, Stan. Bill just doesn’t lounge around in your head, he twists you up inside until you’re unrecognizable. He takes and he destroys and he doesn’t give a _damn_ if he’s ruining you. Bill just feeds on the chaos of it all. And Ford might still be allies with him.”

“Ford can’t be.” Stanley said sternly, sure of his words. “You didn’t see him when I did. He was scared, paranoid. Either somethin’ was hunting him or he had broken things off with a powerful demon.”

“If he wasn’t possessed then why else would he attack you?”

“Because,” Stanley paused, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I provoked him. I shouldn’t have tried to put my lighter to the journal, otherwise he wouldn’t have been pushed into the portal.”

Fiddleford’s eyes grew wider, the boxer realizing too late what he had said.

“Pushed?”

Stan gulped, falling defeatedly against the back of his seat.

“You were wondering how I got the scar on my shoulder,” the engineer nodded along with his story as the boxer winced, trying to make sense of the fight. “Ford shoved me into the console and it burned straight through my favorite coat and basically branded me.” He gave a short, bitter laugh, “Like cattle! You know how I am, Fidds, I get to fightin’ and it’s like my brain is completely shut off. Well, I hardly noticed the portal turning on behind him and when I tried to make my final point I…”

“You shoved Stanford into the portal.” Fiddleford muttered, completing the other’s sentence. The boxer grimly nodded, jaw clenched tight. The engineer pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses skewing in the process.

“Maybe we should take that road trip then, just without Ford. Then he can study monsters all he wants.” Fiddleford joked, the boxer snorting as he sat up again.

“You know,” the engineer voiced with a sympathetic smile, “Stanford’s not going to be very happy with you when he gets back.”

“Are you kiddin’? Ford’s gonna be furious. But only for a few minutes, then he’ll realize how much we’ve put aside in order to get him back safe and he’ll be practically groveling at our feet.”

Fiddleford felt unease settle in his stomach, disguising it behind a faint grin. Stanford Pines was not the same wide-eyed science nerd blindly grappling for the truth. The engineer had tried to explain that Cipher corrupts, even in himself, but it didn’t seem to get through to the man beside him. 

He would give him a chance.

Ford was coming back, whether he wanted him to or not. The portal was set. He could only pray the boxer’s misguided optimism would be correct.

If not… He was not sure what they would come to.

Reaching out, he gave Stanley’s hand a hopeful squeeze, the boxer lacing their fingers together before pulling back out on the highway and headed home.

\--

The wind whipped at his clothes, bits of sand snatched up from the surrounding dunes before being scattered and settling somewhere entirely different. This was how deserts were made. He pulled the black scarf covering his mouth tighter, leaving only a slit for his vision. Of course, the planet was practically a newborn, the crusts just cool enough from colonization. But for now, the dunes were merely a sandbox, a scar on the outskirts of the rapidly developing metropolis, and a place he could find peace and quiet. To him, it was just another pit stop.

But Ford Pines wasn’t thinking of all that right now, he couldn’t care less about the fate of this planet in the billions upon billions in the multiverse. The beings here could take up another home, galactic expansion was imminent. For now, he stared at his hands.

The moons were enough to illuminate even the creases in his fingers, the subtle dips of his palms as he cupped them in his lap. He ran them along his dark pants, setting free the grime that had accumulated under his fingernails.

His hands had been a constant in his life, the extra digit making him a freak among the masses. But here, he had come to learn, six fingers were no big deal. Just today alone he had seen a boy with tentacles for arms, something that was similar to a humanoid snail, and a large, speaking moth. No matter which dimension he traveled in, he was never looked at like some sort of deformity. Stanford shoved his hands in his coat pockets, fingers brushing against the smooth sphere inside. He took it out, turning it over in his palms.

It was a simple device, really, one he himself could have created if he had worked on it long enough. It contained a tear, just like his own invention, only much smaller and much more dormant. All it took was for him to twist it open, stand in the particle field it created, and type in the coordinates.

Only, he didn’t know the specifics for his home. And even if he did know the coordinates for Earth, he would have to find the numbers right down to the twentieth digit to locate his specific dimension in the multiverse. The traveler who had shown him how to work it, and who he had bought it off of, told him he could search for the rest of his life and still never find it.

Sand crunched behind him, footsteps skidding in the unstable ground. He pocketed the machine, instead reaching for the gun he kept strapped across his back.

In one quick motion he stood, turning on his heel, and pointed the barrel directly at the newcomer’s forehead.

It was a child.

Stanford didn’t dare lower his gun, instead he held it tighter in his palms. The kid in front of him shivered against the cold night air, their dotted pajamas barely offering any protection. Rumpled hair fell almost completely over their face, concealing all but their chapped lips, pulled down in a frown.

“Who are you? State your business.” Ford growled, finger skimming over the trigger. If he had learned anything, there was no one, absolutely _no one_ , you could trust. Not even a child.

And he was right.

After a moment of petrified silence, and the kid clutching their hands close to their chest in a frightened gesture, the child’s arms dropped. They laughed, throwing their head back as they did so, grubby fingers slicking back the hair over their face to reveal a singular, yellow eye, a dark slit running down the middle of it.

“Did you miss me?”

Stanford gasped, stumbling back as his legs jerked and sputtered before finding his footing again. He pushed a button on the hilt of the gun, the barrel emitting a shrill whine as it charged, changing from bullets to plasma.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, Sixer, you wouldn’t shoot a kid, would you?”

“You possessed child just so you could talk to me?” He spat, holding the gun steady, but taking his finger off the trigger.

“It’s not like I can get into that big noggin of yours anymore! So why don’t we cut the small talk and get right down to business. Unless, of course, you’d like to blow this kid’s brains out all over the ground. Your choice.” Bill moved the child’s body, pressing their head directly to the end of the gun.

It was tempting, just to see the momentary panic flood the demon’s eye before he was torn from his host. But then there would be even more blood on Ford’s hands.

He sighed, begrudgingly putting down the gun. He had paid a pretty penny for the metal plate installed in his head, but it seemed Bill cipher was bound and determined to make his life hell, even if it meant crossing billions of dimensions.

“What do you want, Bill?”

“Just thought I’d give you some insight to what your idiot brother is doing!”

Bill clapped his hands together, the child’s eye lighting up as it projected an image onto the ground. Ford blinked, straightening his cracked glasses as the image became less blurry and began to move. With a shock, he realized it was his twin.

“Is it working?” Stanley’s voice was muffled, Ford leaning closer to hear as his brother pulled down on a switch. The thin man at his side nodded, the scientist noticed the unmistakable blond locks as the hologram pointed to the vortex beyond the glass.

“Everything seems to be in stable condition.” The voice drawled, Stanford going white as a sheet.

Not only was Fiddleford back, but they had managed to reopen the portal.

“Only two hours to go.” Stanley muttered, sharing a smile with the smaller man before turning his attention back to the portal.

The vision ended, the light splintered by the child’s hair flopping back in their face. Bill snickered again.

“They didn’t.” Ford whispered, eyes going wide at the realization. “They couldn’t have possibly opened it up again. I hid the journals!”

“Oh, but they _did!_ And they’ve got about two hours before the end of their puny lives. You know as well as I do that rift won’t hold for much longer. And when it collapses…”

Bill didn’t finish, the scientist in front of him knowing damn well what would happen.

The Pines twins would be single handedly responsible to the apocalypse, to the end of all life on Earth as its inhabitants knew it. And once the countdown clock was activated, there was little he could do to stop it.

“I can’t wait to see the look on his dumb face, when I come through that portal instead of you.”

\--

He could destroy it.

Stanley had gone upstairs. He was left alone, the sole remainder told to watch for any anomalies while the boxer grabbed a sandwich. Fiddleford watched the clock tick down: 0 days, 0 hours, 59 minutes, and 14 seconds.

The idea was tempting, and certainly easy to do. All it took was the push of a button and it would shut down. The thing that had destroyed him, destroyed friendships, and was fated to destroy the world would be gone, just like that.

Of course, that would mean sacrificing Stanford, something despite all the horrible things that had happened to him as a result of his friend, was something he could never bring himself to do. The engineer had but on a big show about how he would have nothing to do with the scientist once he walked out of the portal, but it was just talk. Stanford drew in his interests like he had his own gravitational field; the scientist was an interesting person, and had been a good friend right up until the last few months. He wanted them to be on good terms again.

Fiddleford sat quietly, unnerved to even be in the same room as the vortex, wringing his hands.

His eyes snapped to attention as the portal gave a shutter, the hum plunging into a deeper pitch. Fiddleford stood, not daring to go out from behind the safety glass.

“What…?” He mumbled as the ground shook, the cup of coffee he had place on the table rattling off the surface, and instead of hitting the floor and breaking, it hung in the air. A sense of Déjà vu washed over him as his feet began to hover inches from the cement floor.

Gravity anomalies, just like Stanford and himself had found during their tests.

The same gravity anomalies that had cause him to be pulled into the portal. His heart leapt into his throat at the notion, hands gripping onto the control station as if he could be plucked from the ground and sucked back in at any moment. He had gone from contemplating the end of the machine, to the machine planning his own demise.

Fiddleford’s feet hit the ground again, but he didn’t dare let go.

“Geez, that’s the third time today.” The engineer jumped at Stanley’s voice, whipping around as if he had seen a ghost. The boxer paused in his stride, raising an eyebrow as he questioned the smaller man.

“You alright? You’re kinda on edge.”

Fiddleford nodded, for a man who was good at observation, the boxer sure made a lot of obvious statements.

“These anomalies are just a bit unnerving.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at the portal, before turning to the boxer again. Stanley shoved a sandwich into his hands.

“Here, eat something. Maybe that will take your mind off of things for a while, right? I mean we only have about,” his eyes shifted to the clock before coming back to the engineer, “45 minutes left.”

Fiddleford’s stomach made a noise, the man’s appetite suddenly vanishing at the thought of the time growing shorter and shorter. He nodded, forcing a grin for the other before placing the sandwich on his desk. Fiddleford turned his attention back to the looming vortex, the room tinged with blue light as if even now it was threatening to engulf them all.

Stanley’s arms slid around him from behind, the engineer sighing as his shoulders relaxed, leaning against the man’s chest.

“I’m not gonna let you get sucked into that thing again, if that’s what you’re so scared about.” The boxer muttered, pressing his face into the crook of Fiddleford’s neck, “We don’t even have to go out into that room until Ford walks through that portal. As long as that door is bolted shut, you’ll be completely safe, so stop freakin’ out so much and relax. We got about 30 minutes and then this whole thing will be over, there’s no use worrying about it now.”

“Did I ever tell you how awful you are at reassuring people?” Fiddleford said dryly, cupping a hand over the boxer’s. Stanley pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Okay, I guess I will just make _you_ go out there and make sure everything is in working order.”

“You wouldn’t!” The engineer said in feigned indignation. He tugged on Stanley’s arms limply, trying to pull them out from around himself. The boxer laughed, tightening his hold around the other man.

No sooner had his lips, stretched wide in a grin, grazed the engineer’s neck before the frantic beeping began. Stanley groaned, stepping away to get a better look at the watch making the noise.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s just somethin’ I snagged when I was going through Ford’s stuff,” the boxer answered, reading the words across the screen. “He must’ve built it when you two were first testing the portal; it goes off when gravity anomalies are about to happen. So any second now…”

As if on cue, the two began to feel lighter. The pens and papers scattered across the desks began to lift, and seconds later, Fiddleford and Stanley found themselves among them. The last hadn’t been more than a mere shift, barely enough to raise him off the ground. But now, the engineer levitated feet off the ground, legs hiked up to his chest as he tried to balance. Instead, he drifted in lazy rotations.

Stanley was a different story; the moment he had saw coffee float out of his mug, the wobbly shapes pitching upwards, he had grabbed onto the nearest thing he could find: the control panel bolted to the cement floor. The boxer felt his feet being tugged out from under him and into the open air. His heart hammered in his chest, eyes wide in panic as his palms suddenly gained a slick quality.

The boxer yelped as he fell upwards, slipping away towards the dark ceiling along with his collected companion.

“I-I didn’t think we would be this far up!” Stanley’s voice was shrill with panic, hands grabbing everything in proximity as he tried to anchor himself back down. So much for ‘no point in worrying about it’. The engineer spun languidly closer, the larger clutching onto him as soon as he was in arm’s reach.

“Are you afraid of heights or something?” Fiddleford question strangled as the boxer held onto him for dear life. The engineer didn’t mind the floating aspect as long as the door to the portal remained shut and someone was there with him, it was considerably more peaceful than most of their activities. But the boxer seemed to perceive the opposite effect.

“What? No! Of course I’m not! B-But it’s a very rational fear, ya know. Heights are super dangerous. More dangerous than guns!”

“Stan, it’s okay to be scared of high distances--”

“Shut up!” Stanley tensed as they climbed higher towards the ceiling. Fiddleford pressed a hand to his mouth as he laughed against the other man, the boxer turning red to the tips of his ears.

And then they were falling, dropping out of the air.

They collapsed into a pile of tangled limbs on the floor, Fiddleford groaning as he pulled away. He delicately rubbed at the new found sore spot on his head. Stanley bolted upright with a gasp, hands patting himself down frantically as if he were searching for wounds. When he came up empty-handed he let out a long, drawn-out breath.

“That was a close call.” He said, pushing himself to his feet. The portal remained unharmed, too heavy to be pulled off the ground even by a cosmic force.

“Well, we have about three more to go.”

\--

It was a little known fact that, out of the two Pines brothers, Stanford swore significantly more in stressed situations.

“God _dammit_ , Stanley!” Ford grit out as he ran, a hand clutching over the stitch in his side. The faint echoes of Bill’s laughter bounced around in his ears as he fought desperately to get away. Fumbling in his pocket, Stanford procured the dark sphere before twisting it with the flick of his wrist.

It was a race against time now; more dangerous than any of the numerous occasions he spent fleeing from monsters and the like. Now he was up against a force that waited for nothing, the ceaseless countdown. He should have known his brother was just stubborn and idiotic enough to risk the fate of the entire universe to bring him back home.

The ball gave a short squeal as it blossomed open, the projected grid lining the scientist’s hunched form as he continued his flight. The green lines shifted and curved as they came in contact with foreign objects; Stanford paused only for a moment, looking for a relatively flat surface.

 “There,” he wheezed aloud, lungs burning as he pitched forward into a sprint again toward the dirt path. The scientist stumbled more than jumped over the fence, heart pounding in his chest as he hit the level earth. He jammed his thumb against the button, glancing behind himself before he continued on.

“State your destination.” The robotic voice commanded from the sphere.

“Zerxion-5, coordinates: 317-9S5,” Stanford gasped between breaths, his lungs finally cooperating with his demands. 

“Destination found. Transporting…” The monitor cooed entirely too cheerily for the situation. Stanford wanted to scream, wanted to throw things and watch them smash against the ground. Didn’t _anyone_ understand what was at stake here?! Instead he clenched his jaw tighter, counting to ten in his head to relieve steam.

_Those knuckleheads are going to kill us all._

By now he was used to the emptiness that came with dimension hopping, being pulled apart piece by piece until you felt void of absolutely everything and then, suddenly, you found yourself somewhere entirely different and oddly whole again. It was the curse of having a corporeal form.

He stretched out his fingers, then his toes, counting silently to make sure all was there before twisting the sphere closed again. Stanford adjusted the glasses perched on his nose, taking in his surroundings: the purple clay under his mud splattered boots, the multiple planets looming against the horizon, the too rich atmosphere making him that tiniest bit light headed.

This was Zerxion-5 alright, the place he had arrived at when he had flown out of the portal. It had been months ago, so long that he could no longer make out his footprints in the dirt. He glanced toward the empty air where the portal has once scarred the horizon.

Now it was going to be reopened.

He kicked at a pebble, watching in satisfaction as it soared away.

Didn’t Stanley understand what he was doing? _No, of course he doesn’t_. Stanford knew better than anyone even if he brother did have a proper understanding of physics that he wouldn’t care if he tore the whole universe apart as long as he got his way.

Surely Fiddleford should have understood the dangers!

He felt a stab of remorse, shaking his head as if he could physically rid himself of the past.

Before he could think any more on the matter, the world split open with a sound similar to shredding metal, the air electrified with a screech as the space before him was punctured. He held fast to his glasses, his coat and hair pulled forward by the sheer gravity of the gaping maw in front of him.

Stanford wrapped his scarf around himself tighter as he gazed up at the swirling blue vortex.

There was no time to waste.

He took a deep breath and stepped through.

\--

“What do you mean it’s unstable?!”

“What else could that possibly mean?” Fiddleford shouted over the roar of machinery, the clock making sure to loudly countdown every second that ticked away. The earth beneath their feet quaked again, the engineer blindly fumbled through the air to dodge the bolts as they were ripped from the machinery and rocketed towards the ceiling.

“We must have made some miscalculation or- or something!” He fought to keep his voice steady, eyes wide in trepidation. The cement cracked, even the ground tugged free by the force.

“Can we fix it?” Stanley yelled back, wrapping himself around a metal beam that had been knocked loose. “I thought you said everything was in working condition.”

“I thought it was!”

The house gave a violent shutter, groaning out as if it was in tremendous pain. Glass shattered, the window separating the two from the portal room scattered into thousands of tiny pieces. Upstairs, floorboards snapped in two, trees uprooted from hunks of earth as even the cars in town began their ascension towards the sky.

Fiddleford looked on, back pressed against the ceiling as wires snapped, electricity sparking out of the severed ends. The portal itself lifted up the slightest bit, and then all at once, fell back to the ground.

The engineer too found himself falling, the air knocked out of his lungs as he hit the crumbling remains of the concrete floor. He coughed, body shuttering as his lungs fought for air, his forearms scraping against debris once he pulled himself off the ground.

Stanley stood eerily still amidst the wreckage of everything they had achieved in the last few months. Fiddleford approached the silent man with caution, toeing around the ruins of what they had created. He moved to adjust his glasses, finding they were cracked. He tugged on the boxer’s sleeve, looking up at the man’s blank face through half a blurry lens.

Eyes narrowed, Stanley honed in on the lopsided portal, the blue vortex inside swirling at an unnervingly calm pace. And, for a moment, nothing happened. The blue light remained undisturbed.

Fiddleford gulped, stomach sinking as he thought perhaps his first conclusion about the disappearance of Stanford Pines hadn’t been wrong, maybe there would be no reunion at all.

A hand sliced through the light, a six-fingered hand.

Then a leg, a torso, an inky coat billowing in the wind, the build of the dark figure unmistakably Ford-like in stature, blue light shining out from behind the form.

The man at his side stood straighter as he tensed. Fiddleford almost sighed in relief; the storm was over, his old friend was back.

But the moment Stanford ripped off his hood and scarf to open his mouth, chaos broke out again.

“Shut it down!” Ford screamed as if he were a drill sergeant.

The two remained unmoving, sharing the same mouth-open-in-shock look.

“Shut it down. Now!” The scientist repeated, pointing accusingly to the portal behind him, his eyes wild.

Fiddleford, broken from his trance, scrambled for the emergency shut down button. He raised the plastic casing, thankful the wiring was still attached to the panel. The button clicked down as he slammed his palm against it, the whine of the portal deepening in pitch before it grew smaller and smaller before blinking out of existence. The casing was empty, dismally desolate. Wires hung from the ceiling, still sparking in the cracked remains. Stanford sighed as the portal vanished, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to the control room.

“Ford,” Stanley breathed quietly, smile returning to his face before he said louder, “Brother!” The boxer ran out the door before Fiddleford could stop him, before he could warn him that the tattered scientist’s expression was anything but friendly.

Stanley slowed down a few feet from his twin, throwing his arms out as if he expected a hug.

What he got instead was a punch, Stanford snarling as his fist hit his brother’s jaw. The boxer stumbled back, eyes wide with hurt before twisting into something more primal. He leapt at the other man with a yell, the two crashing against the compact earth.

Fiddleford looked on, eyes darting back and forth from twin to twin. He balled his fists and rushed out into the portal room, the two still squabbling on the ground like a couple of preschoolers, a handful of Ford’s hair locked in the boxer’s fist.

“Stop it!” He cried. When the brothers made no attempt to halt, he latched onto Stanley’s wide shoulders and tried to pull them apart. Ford pushed his brother away, giving the engineer the last bit of effort he needed to pry them from each other. The two went tumbling back, Stanley jumping to his feet again, something he had learned from boxing lessons so many years ago.

“Did that portal fry your brain or somethin’? Have you gone completely insane?” Stanley yelled, spitting blood onto the ground. The engineer stalled at his side, automatically giving each twin a once over for the damage they had caused to each other.

“Do you have any idea,” Ford began as he pulled himself off of the ground, his glasses skewed against his face, “how much damage you’ve caused tonight?”

“I know that I spent four months trying to figure out your impossible machine so I could get my brother back and _this_ is how you repay me.” He motioned to his busted lip and the welt blooming against his jawline.

“I wrote specifically about how opening the portal is dangerous! And you blatantly ignored it.”

He redirected his attention the man at his brothers side, “Fiddleford, I expected better from you. You should have known not to get caught up in his idiotic, selfish antics--”

The engineer’s fist connected with Stanford’s face before either one could process what was happening. The scientist fell back on his ass, a hand clamped over his bleeding nose as he stared up at the smaller man, mouth opening and closing like a fish fighting suffocation. His twin wore a similar expression, though it was filled more with awe than with shock. Fiddleford stared at his own knuckles, experimentally moving his fingers, anger still boiling red and hot in the pit of his stomach.

“Now that that’s settled,” Fiddleford started, shooting an angry look to both brothers, “maybe we can settle this without you two ripping each other apart.”

“We might not even have time for that.” Stanford called as he clambered to feet, hissing in pain as he pulled his palm away from his bleeding nose. The engineer, out of habit, pulled a tissue from his pocket and handed it to the scientist.

“What are you going on about now, poindexter?”

“Bill Cipher’s plotting something.”

The room fell silent, the air almost too thick to breath. Fiddleford inched closer to the boxer, suddenly feeling exposed; Stanley kept his eyes locked to the floor.

After a pause, the scientist glancing around the room as if he could spot the demon, he continued, “Opening the portal was dangerous as it was, but without my skill it becomes 200% more volatile. Rebuilding it was almost out of the question. Your attempt at it was about what I expected: a cheap imitation of the real thing.” Stanley physically flinched at the words, “It was exactly what Bill wanted. What did he do to you two? How did he play you to make it seem like he was doing everything in his power to keep the portal from starting back up?”

The boxer remained oddly hushed, fists clenched so tight his hands were shaking. Stanford carried on, shoving the bloodied tissue in his pocket as he folded his arms behind his back and began to pace.

“You see, my design can best be described as a punched hole through dimensions; its stable, doesn’t easily collapse in on itself. However, where mine was a hole, yours is a cut. It heals up so the machine has to keep slicing and stabbing in order to pierce through and keep the connection. It puts strain on the tear, and if it was kept open long enough, it would have begun to blend Bill’s and our realities together.”

“But luckily,” Stanford stopped mid-pace, the first smile the two had seen in months spreading across his face, “I managed to stop it.”

“No you didn’t.” Stanley croaked, looking for a moment like he should have thought better than to say it aloud. Slowly, he continued on, “If Cipher is as cunning as everyone claims him to be, then wouldn’t he have a back-up plan?”

“He’s right.” Fiddleford added on. “Bill’s a demon; he’s omnipotent,” at the curious look Stanley gave him he quietly explained the word meant ‘all-knowing’. “He told me himself he can see all the possible realities spread out before him and makes a choice with the majority. So if in every timeline, in every dimension, Stanley decided to save you, then maybe…”

He trailed off, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut.

“Maybe this was all planned, maybe it was a diversion.”

“A diversion from _what_?” Stanley questioned, the dead air hanging like a veil over the three men.

\--

Deep in the heart of the forest sat a spiral staircase leading far below the surface. Past the traps, and the locks, and the Plexiglas, hung a set of keys, dangling uselessly from an unlocked door.

The bunker was open, the creature inside finally free.

\--

“This is all your fault!” Stanley snapped, poking his brother in the chest.

Fiddleford rested in a chair in the lab, quietly listening to the argument. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The engineer was starting to think the two may never be able to resolve their age-old feud.

“My fault? You’re the one you opened up the portal after you not only knew how dangerous it was, but after I had written explicit directions advising you against it.” Ford countered, slapping the hand away.

“You were screaming for help! What was I supposed to do, sit back and enjoy the rest of my days knowing that you were trapped somewhere dangerous? Did you expect me to not come after you?”

“I expected you for once to use some reasoning, and do what I would have done.”

“You wouldn’t have saved me?” The question was sharp, punctuated by the rise in volume of the boxer’s voice, the question ringing out to the still lab. Stanford paused, tearing his eyes away from the man before him as he turned to the door.

“You wouldn’t have saved me.” Stanley said again, voice cracking in somber recognition.

The scientist took a step towards the door, a hand resting on the frame as he paused.

“I can’t stand being down here any longer.” Stanford said, his voice flat and emotionless, “We’re sitting ducks as long as we don’t try to figure out what Bill is planning. I have some equipment upstairs I made before… Before my untimely disappearance. It could help us take him down once and for all. Fiddleford,” he added coldly, “you are welcome to join me if you’d like.”

He pressed the button and was gone, the elevator door sliding shut behind him.

Stanley’s shoulders slumped the moment the doors closed, the boxer falling back and sliding down the wall. He slid his palms over his eyes, following through his hair, slicking back the disorderly bangs. Never so badly had he wanted to scream in his life, kick something in, anything to get out his frustration. Months of hard work, nights upon nights of going without sleep so he could read science volumes, all for what?

For his brother to call him a useless idiot and to storm off again.

He sighed, the back of his head hitting the wall. Stanley wondered, not for the first time, how many times he would have to apologize before he would be forgiven for his mistakes from over a decade ago. Ford held onto grudges the way one clings to a life raft to keep from drowning.

And after all he had done, facing the odds of someone who didn’t even have a high school diploma building something two geniuses and an all-knowing demon had created, just so he could see his brother again, to save him from whatever fate lay in wait to consume him on the other side of the portal. Although, he supposed, Stanford wouldn’t have gotten pushed through if it weren’t for him in the first place. But he had saved him, nonetheless.

His brother wouldn’t have even returned the favor.

Stanley put his head in his hands and let out a drawn-out, muffled groan. Refusing to raise his head, he heard the engineer slide down the wall next to him and leaned against the boxer’s shoulder. They sat in a hushed silence, Fiddleford offering his presence as a comfort as his companion fought to steady his breathing again.

“We should probably head upstairs. He’s right about being sitting ducks; Bill could trap us a lot easier down here.” The engineer gently offered, a hand gripping the inside of Stan’s elbow.

“And have him be an ass to me again? Yeah, no thanks.” The boxer crossed his arms, his frown becoming more of a grimace. How were he and his brother supposed to go about their daily lives now?

“You know how Ford is, he says a lot of things he doesn’t mean in the heat of the moment, kind of like you do.” The engineer shot a sympathetic grin Stanley’s’ way, “He’s being a jerk about it now, but you’ve got to give him some time, he just got back. It’s culture shock. He’s probably got a lot of pent up anger and is taking it out on you. I’m not saying it’s right, but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to regret it or that it’s going to stay like this. If I have to give him a second chance, you do too.”

Stanley said nothing. Their roles had been reversed, now it was the engineer’s turn to reassure him of his brother. Fiddleford took a deep breath and continued on.

“And if we didn’t need to team up with him to take down Bill Cipher, then I would have said to hell with him already but… But for now you two need to work something out.”

“I don’t get it! Why does he have to be like that?”

The engineer looked away, his voice falling quieter, “Your brother used to ask the same thing about you.” Stanley hunched forward, lip curling as if Fiddleford had just said something unpleasant.

“Please don’t pull that ‘we’re similar’ crap on me, because—“

“I’m not,” the engineer reassured him, interrupting the boxer’s train of thought.

“You’re not the same person at all. Your actions are very different, as well as how you carry them out. Stanford is more analytical and you come from a more unpredictable and emotional standpoint. He has practically no common sense, and I mean that’s being generous, and you’ve got…”

“Street smarts?” Stanley offered up.

“Exactly! You’re not just a half of a whole.” He nodded enthusiastically, his grip on the boxer’s arm tightening. “You two are both very… prideful people.”

“So you want me to drop everything and roll over like a dog?”

“No, I just think it would be beneficiary if instead of punching him, or ignoring the problem, you tried to work things out verbally.”

“Oh yeah, because that worked out so well before.”

“You should at least try it, Stan. He’s only been back for an hour, give him some time to simmer down, let him focus on taking Bill down, then approach him again. The world is at stake.”

“Ugh, I hate it when you’re right.” Stanley sighed, the corners of his mouth curving upwards the slightest bit. “How are you so good at all that emotional bullshit?”

“Because for the last six years I’ve lived with two men who are worse about talking their feelings out than a piece of cardboard.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that kind of stuff is for wusses.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“My point exactly.” He stood, pulling the boxer along with him, “Let’s go upstairs, okay? Maybe you should at least try to talk things out civilly with your brother, you know, before you try to knock him out.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” the boxer teased with a snort. “I never knew you had such a great swing, Fidds.”

“Let’s just hope I don’t have to do that again.”

\--

Stanley Pines crept towards the red Diablo, his stomach dragging the ground as he kept low, out of sight of the man pacing upstairs and ever closer to the unprotected vehicle.

Well, he wasn’t _actually_ Stanley Pines, just something that looked like an exact replica of the man, more similar than even a twin.

He peeked up above the dip of the trunk, hands steady on the metal frame, the scientist falling prey to his gluttonous stare. Stanford muttered something, he saw only the slightest twitch of his lips, before Ford had stormed off into an adjacent room.

The coast was clear.

Letting his hand take its original form again, a claw slid alongside the crack in the door handle, pulling it open with a snap of his wrist, the same way he wished he could use his hands around the Pines’ and their engineer’s necks. His stomach tightened as he slipped inside, jaw clenching at being confined to such a small space, but he knew he would have to make do, especially if he wanted to keep his deal.

Bill Cipher didn’t take kindly to cop-outs. And right now, the demon was his only chance at changing his fate.

His vision turned to red, eyes flashing the murderous color as his hand morphed again, bones snapped into dust, the pale human flesh melding and solidifying into metal, bumps and grooves mimicking the keyhole perfectly. He snickered at the simplicity of the design, how pitiful it was that humans thought they could keep others out with locks and chains.

The car engine cranked; not a soul inside seemed to notice.

\--

Fiddleford and Stanley had walked less than two feet into what had been converted into the gift shop before the sounds of stomping reached their ears. The two shared a look of timid anticipation before Stanford made his entrance.

“Stanley, where's my equipment? I can't find anything, not my beakers, nor my chalkboard-- even the axolotl is gone! What in the world have you done to my house?” The question was more exasperated than angry; it seemed he had finally simmered down a bit. His chest heaved as if he had just ran a marathon, or, more likely, as if he had made a lap around the entire Shack.

“I gotta pay for the mortgage somehow, Poindexter. Not to mention bribing those hounds at the IRS so they won’t convict us of tax fraud. Add in the costs to fix heavy machinery and monthly bills and you’re looking at a small fortune.” The scientist’s hard expression became more engaged. His expertise was science, the way the world worked. Stan’s was money, trickery, the way the people who inhabited the globe functioned.

“So you transformed my house into some kind of kitschy tourist trap.” Stanford voiced the words as if they tasted sour in his mouth, eyes roaming around the gift shop.

“Well,” the boxer cleared his throat, throwing a glance to the engineer before getting the nod of approval, “it’s not the soundest business, but it works pretty well. The Mystery Shack—“

“Mystery Shack?” The scientist’s eyebrows raised so far from their perch above his eyes that they may as well have ascended past orbit. “You stole my house and renamed it… That?”

“Hey, don’t make fun of her!” Stanley snapped, ignoring the frantic elbowing from Fiddleford. “I’ll have you know that the Mystery Shack has been there for me more than you ever were.”

“Okay!” Fiddleford cut in, knowing the conversation could only go downhill. He moved to stand between the brothers. “Can we just calm down and talk about what to do about Bill? Am I the only one worried about that?”

Ford cleared his throat, hands falling behind his back as he straightened up once again.

“I designed a special gun, a rifle more specifically, designed for taking out Bill Cipher’s physical form. It should also knock him out of a body if he’s in one, with minimal damage to the person.” He motioned for them to follow him into the living room, “But, as you can see, everything has been reorganized. We are running out of time and I have absolutely no clue where it is.”

“A rifle, huh? Does it got a weird triangle as a crosshair?” Stanley asked, absentmindedly scratching his always present five o’clock shadow.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“It’s probably in the closet under the stairs, then.”

Fiddleford blinked. Had he heard that right? Stan knew where something was for once? Unheard of. He followed after Ford, the boxer walking through the living room and turning sharply at the stairs.

The scientist paused suddenly, eyes focusing on the only item out of place in the house. He picked up the green button down shirt with a hand, holding it away from himself as if it were potentially dangerous. His gaze shifted to the boxer and engineer, suddenly dead in their tracks.

“Is this…”

Stanford cleared his throat, motioning to Fiddleford, watching as the smaller man’s face grew redder by the second. The boxer remained stiff at his side, fighting back a laugh.

“Oh… There’s my shirt. I was, um, I was looking for that.” The engineer snatched it away, balling it up as he held it close to his chest.

“I don’t want to know.” Stanford made a face before going back to his work.

He focused back on the closet door, his hand barely scraping the surface of the knob before it fell open. The scientist jumped back in the nick of time, a mountain of items falling down behind him, blocking the entrance to the closet.

“Stanley… What…?” Fiddleford questioned, mortified at the mess.

“I never said it was ‘clean’.”

Ford balked, his face going from unbelieving, to annoyed, and finally, as he began to make his way through the scattered science supplies, old records, and God knows what else, his face contorted into one of wrath. The scientist turned, absolutely livid.

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?”

Stanley’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s icy tone.

“I mean, I personally found it hilarious, but you—“

The scientist crossed the room easily in quick strides, coming to stand in front of his brother.

“Our time is running out. Can’t you take something seriously for once in your life? Do you know what’s going to happen when Bill takes over?”

The boxer crossed his arms, “Kill us?”

“No. _Worse_. He’ll enslave us, make us dependent on him. He’ll keep us locked away and make us do unspeakable acts just so he can laugh at our suffering. We’ll be nothing more than puppets. That demon is going to destroy all of humanity for laughs, and you’re wasting our time.” The words were hissed, compact but enunciated, the boxer’s frown growing deeper with each syllable.

“Look,” Stanley managed through clenched teeth. “I’m sure it’s in there somewhere, and it’s huge so it can’t be that hard to find.”

“Oh no, why don’t you two go off and play house some more while I try to save the universe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem more than content with twiddling your thumbs while I do all the work over here.”

“What?!” Stanley threw his hands up in the air, finally losing his patience. “Do you know how hard I worked to bring you back? How many hours I spent messing around with circuits and toxic waste so I could get your ungrateful ass home? I read books for you, Ford. Books!”

“Do you have any idea how hard I tried to keep this universe from falling into his hands? How much of my effort you destroyed in a few months?”

Fiddleford turned his head as he heard faint ringing, his eyes snapping to the phone mounted on the wall. He watched as it moved, hardly making out a sound above the commotion.

“Could you two be quiet, please?” He asked. Whether they didn’t hear him, or they just decided to ignore him, he didn’t know. They continued their screaming match, Stanley snatching his brother up by the collar of his shirt.

“I saved your life!”

“You’ve doomed us all.”

“Would you two just _be quiet_!?” The two froze, heads turning to the smaller man as he stamped his foot against the ground. The phone rang, filling the silence as the engineer shot them both a disappointed look. Stanley let go of his brother. When the engineer managed to tear his glare away, he marched to the phone, clearing his throat.

In a much quieter tone, he mumbled into the receiver, “Pines residence.”

“How did I know you were over there instead of at your apartment?” The voice was low, smug almost, fascinated that her inference had been correct. Fiddleford recognized it immediately.

“Hello, Laura. What is it?” The response came naturally at this point. He looked on as Stanley let go of his brother, straightening up across the room. The engineer rolled his eyes; there was no reason for the boxer to be so on edge when his ex-wife called. Sure, they weren’t as hostile or awkward as it had been in the beginning, but they had to put Tate first and worry about their differences later.

She laughed, he could practically picture her tall, round form leaned over a table, pencil scratching against paper as she scrawled endless notes.

“Straight to the point then? Yeah, your boy toy picked up Tate like you said you would today, and he forgot his bear. You’ll probably want to swing by and get it before he pitches a fit tonight.”

“Boy toy?” He repeated into the phone, clutching it a little tighter as his gut dropped. Dread, worse than any kind of panic he had ever felt, slinked up his spine like claws.

“You know, used to have a mullet, real stubborn like?”

“Stanley? He was over there?” Fiddleford sputtered, eyes locking with the boxer across the room.

Blood drained from the engineer's face. Stanley had been with him for the last four hours.

The scientist was the first to connect the dots.

“Fuck,” Stanford muttered, his hands flying to grasp his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” He launched himself back into the closet, his brother looking between the two in concern.

“Yeah. What, are you two on bad terms or something?” Laura paused, seeming to sense the man’s fright even over the phone. “Please tell me I didn’t just give our boy away to someone looking for revenge.”

“Stanley, where’s the tranquilizer gun? I know you keep one in the house, _where is it_?”

“Behind the couch. Why? What’s going on?”

The scientist rushed across the room, practically flipping the couch over as he gave it a harsh tug. Resurfacing with the tranquilizer, he set his jaw and advanced towards the door.

“Fiddleford? Everything’s okay, right?” Asked the voice in the phone. The engineer covered a hand over the mouth-piece, hiding how shallow his breathing had become. The room was spinning. He needed to think. The only other person who looked like Stanley was his twin, and Stanford had only just returned, there would have been no time for him to take his son.

“The car’s gone!” He heard the shout as the scientist poked his head back in.

“Someone, please tell me what the hell is happening.” Stanley groaned, a palm pressed to his forehead.

“Do you need me to call the police?”

The room fell silent, Laura’s voice loud enough to echo through the empty space. Five eyes fell on the engineer, his knuckles white from gripping the phone cord so hard.

There was only one other being who could mimic people well enough that even his son wouldn’t be able to tell a difference. 

His eyes stung as he remembered the Shapeshifter’s comment from long ago.

_Don’t take me for a fool, McGucket. I’m aware of the dealings of Bill Cipher. We’re practically old friends._

It was a set up from the very beginning. If they called the cops they would turn up empty handed or he would be framed for kidnapping, they all would be. Then Bill could waltz right through the portal any time he wanted.

_You’re an idiot if you ever thought things would work out for you in the end! You were doomed from the start!_

He took a shaky breath, closing his eyes as he steadied his voice.

“Sorry, Stanford was just asking me a question. Everything is fine here. In fact, I think I just heard them pull up. Do you need anything else?”

There was a pause on the other end, as if Laura knew he was lying. Fiddleford bit his lip, watching as Stanford threw open the door once more, tranquilizer gun aimed towards the tree line. He did not know at what point Stanley had come to stand by his side, but he jumped when the man touched his arm, eyebrows furrowed in distress.

“No. Just be safe, Fiddleford. You better be by later to get that bear.”

“I will.”

Laura hung up without so much as a goodbye.

The engineer immediately crumpled to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this took about ten days to finish and edit, as I promised last time I worked every day, I'm not quite sure if the next chapter will be out before the finale. That being said, let's just all form a prayer circle around the Pines family and hope our faves aren't killed off horribly.
> 
> Also, sorry if Stanford is a little... excessively mean in this chapter??? He's the type of guy that lashes out when he's hurt, and the wound of being betrayed by everyone is still fresh. He will simmer down a bit later, i promise. 
> 
> As always, thanks for enjoying, sorry to leave on a bit of a cliff hanger (I'm not sorry). Leave a comment to let me know what you think, even if its just screaming into the void about what I put these characters through. 
> 
> Thank you!


	20. The Fate of the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to get Tate back, and save the world from the deadly combination of the Shapeshifter and Bill Cipher, the trio are willing to risk it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic passed 250 kudos! Wow!! I couldn't be happier about this accomplishment. 
> 
> This chapter is... heavy. 
> 
> Warnings: lots of violence, lots of blood, kidnapping, crying, weapons, the whole shebang. Though, what else is to be expected for the final showdown?

Fiddleford felt numb, the faint tingling of his limbs pulled tight around himself and the death grip he still had on the phone were the only things indicating he was even alive. His glassy eyes registered the people in front of him as mere blurs of color, the only sound ringing in his ears was of his own pounding heart.

It was as if he had stepped outside of his body in a moment of panic.

Then things began to close in again; Fiddleford pressed his spine against the wall in a feeble attempt to suppress his feelings from returning.

Everything hit him at once.

There was a terrible, insurmountable weight pressed against his ribcage. He gasped as he resurfaced, the quick heave of breath cut short with a cough, his lungs burning as he tried again. He came up short, a free hand clawing at his own heartbeat as if he could steady it himself, keep it from bursting free. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to voice it aloud, an almost inhuman, strangled sound tearing free from his lips. His son was gone. Tate was gone. Gone. Taken by the creature he feared the most.

“Fiddleford.” The soft call came from Stanley’s deep voice. The engineer blinked, looking up through his watery eyes.

“If you don’t exhale you’re going to hyperventilate.” A different voice, similar in tone but smoother.

“Yeah, what he said, Fidds. You gotta breathe. C’mon, it’s the simplest thing about being human.”

The engineer wheezed as he tried again frantically, his head growing more muddled with every failed gasp. His son could be dying out there and he couldn’t even catch his breath.  

“I can’t--!” He croaked, the sentence cut short by another wracking cough.

“You got this, just breathe when I do, okay? Think about Tate. We’re gonna get him back, you just gotta start calmin’ down.”

Fiddleford let out a shaky breath along with the boxer, finding the pressure in his chest gradually alleviate. The man became more aware of his surroundings.

The engineer hadn’t noticed he had been carried to the couch until his hands dug into the soft cushions to push up. He shivered despite himself, stomach lurching as the room spun in uneven fits of twirling. Stanley caught him as he stumbled, his hands clutching onto the boxer’s shirt as he prayed for the nausea to leave him.

The door opened again, Fiddleford not knowing when the scientist had left in the first place. He didn’t bother to open his squeezed shut eyes, rather, he buried his face closer to Stanley’s shoulder.

“We’re running out of time.”

“Stanford, just give him a _second_.”

He approached them quietly, his boots hardly making a noise as he crossed the wooden panels. Slowly, as if handling something fragile, he pulled a crumpled ball of paper from his trench coat pocket.   

“There was a note in the driveway.”

The boxer’s grip on the man tightened, as if he might topple over again.

“What does it say?” Stanley asked gruffly, the engineer turning his head away from the brothers.

“It’s a ransom note,” the scientist breathed, the paper crinkling as he carefully unfolded it. “He says he’ll give Tate back in exchange for the tear.”

“The tear?”

“The tear.” Fiddleford found his voice again, the room falling silent to hear what he had to say.

“The one on the inside of the portal, right? It was created when we first punched a hole through dimensions,” he explained in hopes to clear up the dumbfounded look on Stanley’s face. “As long as if was kept it in a container and didn’t expand then we didn’t think it would be any harm.”

When the scientist nodded, he continued, “Why would the Shapeshifter want that?”

Stanford’s expression became grim.

“The portal is unstable, like I said earlier. It could bleed our reality with Bill’s, releasing the worst of nightmares to rampage through our reality. This would all be possible if the tear is broken open. The portal is so volatile because the tear flourished. What was once just a few measly millimeters is now roughly six inches.”

The scientist paused mid-pace, looking over his shoulder at the other two, “What I want to know is why the Shapeshifter would want Bill’s reality to merge with our own? That would mean hell on Earth for him as well.”

Fiddleford blanched, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe again. The boxer shot him a quizzical look as he shuddered.

“They are working together, Bill and the Shapeshifter.” He paused for a moment to let the fact sink in, the twins’ bewildered faces going bug-eyed at his announcement. “He- he told me himself, he said they were practically ‘old friends’. Bill must have promised him something big—revenge on us, a good seat for watching the world burn, knowledge, you name it-- in exchange for the rift.”

“You knew and you didn’t say anything?” The boxer questioned, Stanford still deathly quiet, his stare boring into the smaller man.

“I thought he was just trying to scare me! I never knew,” the engineer’s voice broke, “I never knew he would take Tate.”

The room fell silent once more, Fiddleford’s hand clamped over his mouth as he tried to compose himself.

In the end, it all came down to his fault, to his secrets. He was responsible for his own son’s kidnapping.

“Is there any way to stop it?” Stanley asked, still trying to make sense of the science behind everything. Universal tears weren’t mentioned in any of the books he had tediously fought his way through.

“I could isolate it,” the scientist said as if the answer was even new to himself, “that could stop it from growing larger and make it less turbulent. But even if we do, the Shapeshifter would just smash open the canister.”

“We have to hand it over,” Fiddleford said, pulling away from the boxer now that he had found is footing again. “There’s no telling what he’ll do to Tate if we don’t.”

“We can’t.”

Stanford turned his back to the two of them. “If we give it up then the world falls under Bill Cipher’s control. There won’t be much use helping your son then.”

“Well, we can’t just sit around and do nothing!” The boxer snarled, forcing his brother to look at him. “Tate’s life is in danger. I won’t let you stand by and do nothing to help.”

“Hold on,” the scientist held up his hands, keeping his temper surprisingly under control. “You didn’t let me finish.”

Ford took a deep breath, turning to the engineer as he pushed his twin off, “We’ll just have to intercept your son before the Shapeshifter can get the tear.”

Fiddleford’s relieved smile could have melted the coldest heart. This was the old Ford. He was truly back.

“Stanley, I’m going to need you to gather up as much equipment as you can from around the house. I had a few choice weapons up my sleeves before it all got stuffed away, see what you can find. Anything that will work on the shapeshifter.” And after a pause, he added, “Don’t bother with the tranquilizer gun.”

The boxer mock saluted, grinning at his brother for the first time in a long time.

“Fiddleford,” Stanford continued with his orders, hands held behind his back like a general, “it’s a two men job to dismantle the portal with what little time we have. How far away does Laura live from here?”

“About 20 minutes, just outside the county.”

“Then we have maybe a bit longer than that, depending on how well the Shapeshifter can operate a vehicle…” The scientist trailed off, muttering to himself under his breath before snapping back in attention.

“Grab a toolbox and let’s get down to the lab. We’ll have to be quick…” Fiddleford nodded, and with a quick glance between the other two, Stanford rounded the corner to the stairs.

The engineer followed behind, only stopped short from leaving the living room when a hand grabbed his own. He turned, Stanley pulling him back, brown eyes searching blue.

“We’re gonna get him back. I promise. Even if I have to knock out the son of a bitch Shapeshifter myself.”

Fiddleford returned the small smile, the grin more sad than hopeful, and pressed a swift kiss to the other’s lips.

“I know.”

“Fiddleford, hurry up! We don’t have much time left!” Shouted a voice from the stairwell.

Fiddleford gave the hand holding his own a squeeze before following after Stanford.

The engineer slid through the elevator doors, muttering a thanks to the scientist for holding it open. The familiar whirl of gears turning filled the small space, the elevator giving a small sway before it began to shift downwards towards the lab.

The silence was uncomfortable, the two standing on opposite sides of the steel walls, eyes sneaking glances when the other would look a different direction. An atmosphere of apprehension hung heavily over their heads.

Then Stanford spoke up,

“So… You and my brother really did it.”

“That, uh…” The engineer cleared his throat, keeping his eyes locked onto the ground as he joked, “That’s a very _vague_ statement.”

“I meant the portal. You two somehow managed to fix it up.”

“It was mostly Stanley.” Fiddleford was quick to cut in humbly, “All I really did was weld things back together and connect a few wires; he had most of it under control. Can’t tell you how many long nights he was down here in the control room.”

Stanford nodded, finding no surprise at how useful his twin could be when he direly needed to accomplish something. There was no telling how far he would have risen up if he had finished high school. The scientist faltered at that, pushing the guilt from his mind. He decided to change the topic.

“I just never expected _you_ to return.”

Fiddleford let out a forced laugh to cover the grimace, “Well, you know your brother. He’s almost impossible to say no to. Besides, was I supposed to not care that my friend was lost in some other dimension?”

The engineer cringed at the words that tumbled out of his mouth. Were they even _friends_?  Luckily, he didn’t have to hear the response as the elevator doors opened with a too cheery ding. Fiddleford rushed out, halting suddenly outside of the shattered windows.

While the room remained in shambles, the portal was still ever looming, as if it was some unbeatable beast. It had, however, taken some damage from the short drop: cracks running down a few panels, the entire base tilted at an odd angle. As he watched, some forsaken fragment finally taken hold by gravity plunged downwards, glass shattering beneath as it impacted. The engineer winced.

“Years of research and hard work, for this.” Stanford muttered with a broad sweep of his arm, motioning to the destroyed control room. “Seems ironic.”

“Fitting for us.” Fiddleford muttered, making no effort to disguise the bitterness in his tone.

“So,” the scientist clasped his hands together. He was never much one for sentiment.

“Let’s get to it.”

Fiddleford nodded, weary eyes locked on the husk of what had been his worst fear. He approached the machine in the way a startled animal would a highway: slow, steady, and frequently glancing back to make sure the path was clear. Likewise, when the machine tilted suddenly, he gave the same look a deer would in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

“Don’t panic, it’s shut down for now.” Stanford swept past him, making his way for the hollow contraption. The engineer took a deep breath, balled his hands into fists, and followed after.

“For now?”

“Well, it was built to withstand massive earthquakes, gravity anomalies, space-time errors, etcetera.  Lifting off the ground a couple feet won’t make it innocuous. Though, it would be more difficult to stabilize it after such an event, especially since a few essential wires are snapped. I’d love to see how it would test in this condition.”

He turned to find Fiddleford frozen in his tracks, his expression horrified.

“Of course I’m not going to test that now! Or possibly ever again.” The scientist stopped before the machine, his hand feeling the deep indents of star signs carved into the metal, pausing when he had found the sign for Algol in the center of the base.

“Fiddleford, could you give me a hand?” The engineer grew closer at his question.

“Would you hold this panel steady while I transfer the rift?”

The man mutely nodded, giving a quick glance up to the portal as if silently asking permission before allowing his palms to settle on the smooth surface. He held the curved trapezoid tightly in his hands, fingertips sliding cross the cold steel and dripping along the impressions of the constellations. Once again the Pines twins had placed the fate of the universe in his hands; he only hoped this time didn’t result in his memory being wiped.

Stanford searched his endless, hand-stitched pockets in his trench coat. He procured a glass ball, something similar to that of a fortune-teller’s, but fastened to squat pedestal.

“W-What is that?” Fiddleford questioned.

“The answer to our problems. Hold it steady now.” The scientist twisted open the sphere, taking in a deep breath and flipping open the Algol panel.

With a quick snap, and a whiff of burning ozone, the rift had been transferred almost without a hitch. It expanded somewhat in size, the perpetual dance of fractured space and time filling its new home.

The engineer sat back on his heels, feeling a bead of cold sweat trickle down his throat. He watched as the vortex swirled again, dividing before coming back together again, all in a flurry of void and stars. It was as beautiful as it was dangerous. In an odd way, it had reminded him of the town: scenic, but deadly.

Fiddleford found himself voicing his mind before he could process what he was saying, “You said you didn’t want to run tests on the portal anymore. But I thought it was your life’s achievement?”

Stanford flicked his tongue over his lip in thought, tucking the rift into his inner trench coat pocket

“I’m sorry.”

The engineer blinked.

“Fiddleford, I-I believe…” Stanford swallowed thickly before continuing, “I believe I may have been wrong about the portal. All those months ago when you tried to warn me, I was just too blinded by Bill to see what was right in front of me.”

“Stanford…” The engineer started sympathetically, placing a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.

“I should have known better than to take a dream demon’s word over yours. He lied, and manipulated, and blinded me with flattery until I only trusted him. God, it’s like everything I did was for him! I just didn’t want to see it.”

“He tricked me too, Stanford. He got both of us.” The engineer could offer little comfort, the scientist’s forehead only becoming more creased.

“But not like this. You didn’t push away a good friend. Fiddleford, you’re one of the only people I can truly trust. And I ruined our friendship. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.” The scientist’s head drooped forward in defeat. He waited for snickering, for a conformation, maybe even another punch.

“Stanford, I need you to listen very carefully.” Fiddleford’s voice was soft, even if the tone was tense, like a professor giving a lesson.

“I tried blasting away my memories too many times to count. From what I’ve learned, I can’t get rid of you Pines even if I did hate you.” He smiled a bit, leaning forward in sincerity, “Which, for your information, I don’t.”

The scientist’s face fell slack, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“We’re not the first two idiots to fall for Bill’s schemes. If I had been in your place, there is no telling how twisted up inside that dream demon could have made me. I may not have gone down the same path, but it wouldn’t have been pretty nonetheless. So let this be a lesson to you, because for some reason neither you nor your brother can wrap you’re heads around this concept: Ford, I forgive you. But next time a geometrical space entity tries to convince you to make an interdimensional portal, use some common sense.”

The scientist sputtered for a moment, forgiveness the last thing he expected. Fiddleford patted the still stuttering man on the back with a smile, offering out the olive branch.

“What did I just walk into, a soap opera?” Stan’s gruff voice cut through the air as he approached. “I don’t mean to interrupt this Hallmark moment, but I grabbed everything I could find. Do you think a lamp counts as a weapon? I mean I could bash it over his head but it’s not worth carryin’ around, right?”

“I’m more worried about whether you found my gun or not. It could be the key to defeating Bill Cipher.” Stanford’s tone was flat, the scientist brushing off his coat as he rose to his feet. His comment earned a hard stare from the engineer; Ford could practically hear his voice in his head, _‘Play nice!’_

“For your information, I did.” The boxer crossed his arms, “But I’ll let you see that for yourself, we don’t got much time left, Poindexter.”

Stanley led them to the elevator, up the stairs, and to their makeshift arsenal. All the while, a strained air hung over the brothers, but it was dispersing, albeit slowly.

Weapons were piled against the worn, yellow chair. Fiddleford’s eyes fell on the assortment, picking apart what they had in stock: the gun Ford had mentioned earlier, two baseball bats, a fireplace poker, a knife, a sawed-off shotgun, and…

“Did you steal this from my house?” Fiddleford asked, his tone turning indignant as he plucked his memory gun from the stack.

“I just took it so… Ya know, so you wouldn’t be a danger to yourself.” The boxer rubbed sheepishly at his neck, wincing at his choice of words.

“You don’t trust me to be able to control myself?”

“You don’t keep a fridge stocked with liquor in reach of a recovering alcoholic.”

“Oh, so I suppose I should just throw out your beer then.”

“Gentlemen,” Stanford held up his hands, “sign the divorce papers later, right now we have the world to save.”

“And Tate.” Fiddleford added, crossing his arms. Sighing, the engineer pushed his frustration to the back of his mind. It would do no good to argue with the boxer, especially when the Pines were doing so much to help him. He slung a book bag over his shoulder, placing the memory gun inside, and after a moment of thought, grabbing a baseball bat as well.

“What exactly is our plan?” Stanley asked as he slid knuckle dusters over his fist. The engineer looked from his watch, to the twins; 17 minutes had passed. “Was there a sort of meeting place or…? I mean, that’s how these things usually go.”

“All the note asked for was the rift in exchange for Tate. No location, so our best bet is that he,” Stanford paused, slipping the massive gun meant for the demon over his shoulder, “will come to us.”

Gravel crunched in the driveway, the unmistakable sounds of tires creeping into the front yard. The three froze, swapping solemn glances, the engineer looking almost frightened.

Stanford had been correct.

The engineer gulped, pushing past the fear; this was _his son_ they were talking about. He would be strong. For Tate.

“Alright, so we sock the Shapeshifter in his ugly snout, grab Tate, and spend a couple of months laying low and figuring out ways to shake off a demon.” The boxer cracked his knuckles, a hand on the brass door knob.

“Piece of cake.”

Stanley opened the door.

The growling motor of the Diablo broke the solace of the clearing. The trees swayed, wind gushing through the valley. It was all too peaceful, Fiddleford thought, for the horror they were about to face. But the world kept turning.

It was unsettling to watch an exact mirror image of Stanley exit the car; the engineer caught himself doing a double take to the man at his side, just to be sure. When he focused back on the other, and the way he was so harshly gripping his son by the arm, jerking the boy forward, he was sure which was which. Anger boiled in the pits of his stomach.

“Come along, and move quickly.” The trio caught the Shapeshifter’s growled demand, the boy stumbling after a particularly sharp yank.

“Let me go. Please, it hurts!” Tate pleaded, his voice squeaking. Heels dug deep in the dirt, the Shapeshifter paused, turning to snarl at the child causing him so much trouble.

The Shapeshifter raised his hand.

The boy drew back in fear, nearly missing the slap directed at his face.

“Tate!” The engineer screamed, moving to rush to his son, to tackle the Shapeshifter, anything to get him away. But the twins held him back, each a firm grip on his forearm. His breath caught in his throat, the yell dying before it could even reach his chest. Falling slack, the engineer grabbed onto Stanley’s arm, the boxer gripping him just as tightly, both feeling as if they might do something insane without the other for balance.

Fiddleford felt himself physically bristle, jaw clenching. From the way his son acted, it was not the first time the monster had struck him. It wasn’t until now he noticed the faint red ring around Tate’s cheek, the sign of an upcoming bruise.

“What a heart-warming scene!” The Shapeshifter called with false warmth. The face he had been occupying changed, smile growing wider, smugger, along with the addition of rows of sharp teeth and pincers. The hand around Tate’s arm morphed into claws and a slimy, white palm. The boy shrieked, shrinking back again.

“Be quiet, or I _will_ show you what I am truly capable of.”

Tate fell silent immediately, a whimper escaping his tightly shut mouth.

“Now, where was I before the brat interrupted me?” The Shapeshifter mimed scratching at his face with his crippled arm.

The monster snapped his claws together, “Oh! That’s right! How noble is it that you’re willing to rush to this tyke’s aid. I thought you were terrified of me, McGucket?”

“Not anymore.” Fiddleford gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Really? That’s foolish.” The Shapeshifter kept his tone casual, as if they were talking over tea and not a hostage situation. “And puzzling. I cuff your offspring once and suddenly you’re willing to throw your life away. You idiots make less and less sense the more I study you.”

“Get to your point, Shapeshifter.” Stanford interjected coldly, hand hovering over the gun at his waist. If it was a clear shot, he would have already taken it, but the Shapeshifter had carefully placed his hostage between the trio and himself.

The Shapeshifter snorted; Tate flinched.  

“Ah, so now you’re against me too? I thought perhaps we could put this aside, and continue forth in our science.”

“You’re mercurial, unstable, and completely power hungry.”

“Not to mention, sort of a di- _jerk._ ” Stanley jumped in, censoring himself at the last minute for the child.

“That’s fine.” The Shapeshifter shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “You all fall prey to your insecurities and fears far too easily for my liking anyways. Besides, I have a new partner, one who has been carefully watching your every move. I know of the rift, I know of what it can bring about.”

The Shapeshifter jerked Tate closer to himself, holding open his free palm to the others.

“Give it to me.”

The trio idled, each finding themselves unsure and frozen in place.

“The deal was the boy for the rift, now hand it over.”

They had expected a fight, they had expected perhaps a way to reason with the monster in front of them., but they had hardly stepped foot off the front porch. The three shared a silent look: _What do we do?_

The world was at stake. _Tate_ was at stake.

“Are you kidding me? Did you not think I would get this far?” The Shapeshifter snarled, throwing his open hand into the air. “Did you think I would just fall for some half-wit trap, or that your begging would get through to me? Do you know how much I risked to get this sniveling, little brat--?”

The Shapeshifter made the mistake of pointing to the child at his side.

Tate sank his teeth into the monster’s hooked finger.

Blood welled, the Shapeshifter gasping as he instinctually reeled away. His grip on the boy’s arm loosened.

Tate pulled free of his bonds, the child stumbling forward in shock. He backed away slowly, the creature at his side cradling the wound. Fiddleford closed the distance in a blink of an eye. He scooped up his son and bolted back for the house.

Snarling, the Shapeshifter whipped around. His eyes narrowed in on the engineer. The monster lunged.

Ford drew his gun.

A shrill crack resounded through the yard as a beam of light shot past Fiddleford’s head. The laser carved through the Shapeshifter’s shoulder. He roared, a hand clamping over the smoldering flesh.

The distraction was just what Stanley needed. He rushed the still reeling monster. The boxer planted a foot firmly on the ground and swung upwards. Fist connected with jaw, the Shapeshifter’s teeth clacking together, neck thrown backwards.

 _That oughtta buy us some time_ , the thought crossed Stan’s mind as he jumped back. The Shapeshifter struggled for his footing, swaying slightly.

He was disorientated. _Perfect_.

“Get inside!” He barked, pivoting on a heel as they fell back to the Shack. Fiddleford shoved Tate inside, staying back as Ford pushed in after the boy.

Rubbing his jaw as he recovered, the Shapeshifter’s head snapped to attention.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ —where’s a gun?!” Stanley’s head whipped around, eyes searching the porch.

“Here!” Fiddleford handed him his backpack, eyes wide and fixated on the convalescing beast before them. The Shapeshifter regained his balance, the first few steps careening slightly. His pace was quick, but steady; there was no rush to his methodical slaughter.

The boxer dug frantically through the pack. What did a person even use to put down form morphing monster? The guns had been left inside, far too obvious to bring out in the open. He plucked a small knife from the bag, a bat in his other hand. He weighed his options.

The porch groaned under the added weight as the Shapeshifter placed a foot on the second step. He sneered up at them, teeth chipped and bloody.

Fiddleford yanked the baseball bat from the boxer’s hand and, in one fluid motion, brought it down over the Shapeshifter’s head. The wood splintered from the force. The creature fell back. His feet slipped out from under him as his toppled down the stairs.

Stanley, still gaping in awe of the engineer’s actions, was dragged into the house. Fiddleford snapped the deadbolt behind them, the extra locks Ford had added in his paranoia finally of some use.

“That door won’t last very long.” Ford muttered, shouldering a bookshelf across the floor.

“It’ll have to do for now.” Stanley moved to assist his twin, wedging the shelf against the doorframe. The Shapeshifter would recover quickly, but it would buy them a few more seconds.

Fiddleford crouched down, sighing in relief as he pulled his still trembling son into his arms. He brushed the boy’s hair back from his face, eyes scanning over the cuts and bruises littered along his tiny form. The worst was on his wrist, where the monster had held him so harshly, the blue and violet undertones blossoming through his skin.

“You okay?” The engineer breathed. Tate nodded curtly, face still frozen in fear, eyes glazed over.

The door jolted against the lock with a deep _clunk_.

Then again.

Tate clutched harder to his father.

“It’s not gonna hold.” Stanley was next to him suddenly, his words barely a whisper as he swapped between warily watching the door, and throwing sympathetic looks towards the child.

“We need to get him out of here.”

Fiddleford gulped, closing his eyes as he came to a decision.

“Tate,” he cleared his throat, the boy gradually loosening his hold, “I need you to go hide. Just somewhere in the house, somewhere no one can find you easily. Don’t come out, _no matter what_ , until one of us comes to get you. Okay?”

“Like Hide and Seek?” Tate squeaked.

The engineer found a lump rising in his throat.

Giving a small laugh, he answered, “Yeah, just like that. You can do that right?”

He could tell the boy was doing his best to put on a brave face as he nodded back.

The door lurched forward again, hinges creaking as it tried to hold.

“Fiddleford, I’m not trying to cut this short, but we need your help.” The door jumped again, Stanford pressing his weight against it. The bookshelf had been shoved aside by the Shapeshifter’s determined assault; they were lucky it hadn’t toppled over altogether. Though, they were unlucky as to the only thing remaining in order to hold the door in place was the trio themselves.

“Go Tate. Stay quiet, and stay safe.”

And with that, Fiddleford let go of his son and turned to help the twins, forcing his shoulder against the door as it lurched inwards once more. None of them had noted in which direction the boy had fled, but to the engineer, this was all the better. If Bill Cipher tried to get information out of them and use his son as fodder, the demon wouldn’t get very far.

The trio simultaneously fell forward after a particularly harsh thump. The Shapeshifter’s claws slipped through the small space the chain allowed.

Stanley slammed it shut again, the Shapeshifter growling as he jerked his limb back through the crevice.

The door was in shambles, cracks running through the splintering wood, one hinge pulled from the frame completely, the second badly bent. The locks wouldn’t be much help if the monster managed to break through the wood. Fiddleford gulped, his heart beating in his throat.

“We’re done for, aren’t we?”

“You say that with every monster we piss off!” Stanley called back. He braced himself for the creature’s next strike.

“Ford, does he have a weakness or—or something? Give me something to work with!”

“I-I d-don’t--!” The scientist sputtered, rushing to help his brother against the door. “Every time I was studying him, he was observing us back! He’s not immune to anything, it just takes a lot to take him out. Hence, why I always kept enough tranquilizers to take down three Grizzlies.”

“So we just have to keep hitting him?!” Fiddleford cried, grabbing the sharpened fire poker from the couch. “That’s hardly a ‘ _plan_ ’!”

“There’s no better way.”

“Go for the head,” Stanley directed, “maybe if we can knock him out we can drag him back to the freezer. Or at least stun him long enough for us to get the hell out of here.”

They braced themselves, only to fall aware of the silence inside the house, and out.

The door hadn’t budged for several seconds.

Fiddleford’s heartbeat drummed in his ears, the man taking a slow step away from the door.

“Where did he go?” The engineer’s voice fell quiet, as if the monster could be listening in on their conversation. The realization dawned on Ford, the scientist turning to aim his gun at the too still door.

“Don’t panic,” Stanford breathed, his gun emitting a high-pitched whine as he flipped a button. “I have this all under control.”

The hair on the engineer’s thin arm prickled, standing on end. They had lost him. The Shapeshifter could be anywhere, be anything, or anyone.

“Look, he can’t have gotten far.”

There was a beat of quiet, tense, air.

Stanley side stepped from the door, moving to get a view of the window.

The next moments occurred in rapid succession:

“Oh fuck--,” the boxer swore, hardly getting the phrase out before the window shattered. He threw two hands up to cover his face, the white form of the creature leaping through the shattered glass. The Shapeshifter knocked him back with full force. Stanley hit the floor, hard.

Ford spun on a heel. The gun aimed for the creature.

He fired.

The Shapeshifter’s body twisted, a gap in his chest formed before the laser could hit. The beam of light passed cleanly through the cavity, charring the space behind the monster. Unharmed, except for the faint trickle of blood from his maw, and the cut on his head, the Shapeshifter locked eyes with the scientist.

His old friend, the one he blamed for his imprisonment.

The creature launched forward, hooking Stanford in the stomach as he tackled the man to the ground.

Stanley shakily pushed himself onto his hands and knees, lungs heaving for oxygen. He coughed, desperate to regain the air knocked out of him.

It was his brother’s furious shout that gave him the strength to fully compose himself. Vision still swimming, he blinked towards the yell.

The Shapeshifter pinned Ford to the floor. The gun flew out of the scientist hand, skidding across the floor. Stanford struggled, six-fingered hands pushing with all his might to get the weight off of him.  The creature sunk his talons into the man’s ribs.

Stanford screamed.

Fiddleford, who had been rooted to the spot in terror, was jolted by the scream. He clenched his fists, sucking in a deep breath. He was afraid, but he wasn’t about to let some creature maul his best friend. He snatched up the fire poker he had disregarded in the fray.

“Let him go!” The engineer rushed forward, swinging the metal bar.

The Shapeshifter did not easily fall for the same trick twice.

He caught it with a crippled, crab-like arm. Yanking the useless weapon from Fiddleford’s hand, he knocked the man back.

The beast ripped his claws free from their hold, Stanford gasping as the blood began to pool under his torso. The Shapeshifter’s gaze fixated on the engineer. This human had been so afraid before, so petrified that even the Shapeshifter’s words left him shaken. So why now, had he pushed all that back for these men?

He took a step closer to Fiddleford, attempting not to laugh with satisfaction as he watched the man’s face drain of color.

Stanley pulled himself to his feet. The world still spun about him, the ground threatening to rush up, but he would be damned if he was going to let Fiddleford get torn apart. With a furious yell, he charged towards the monster.

The Shapeshifter batted the boxer aside easily, smacking him with enough force to send him across the room. A chair broke as the man struck it, falling unresponsive to the floor. Fiddleford made an attempt to dash past the creature.

“Stanley!”

With a wet squelch, the monster’s form changed, a pair of legs receding, its structure growing thinner as two, white tendrils hung from his back. They twitched, rising into the air above the Shapeshifter’s head. One shot forward, wrapping itself around the scientist and hoisting him high into the air.

“Bill’s a good teacher, even better than you were.” The Shapeshifter brought Ford close to his face, before scoffing and leaving him to hang high in the air. “Did you think he wouldn’t tell me these things? That he wouldn’t show me new forms to take? Granted, he’s taught me only a portion of his knowledge, but I’ve learned more about the universe than you were ever willing to share.”

Meanwhile, Fiddleford frantically shook the boxer’s limp shoulders. He bit his lip in disbelief, holding the man’s head in his hands.

He prayed it was only a concussion.

“Stanley, please, you need to get up before—Ah!”

The spare tendril snaked around the engineer’s middle, bringing him to float beside Stanford. The engineer’s hands desperately pushed at the limb constricting him. The more he struggled, the more it tightened, Fiddleford wheezing as it began to push the air from his lungs.

“I will admit, I didn’t have it too bad down there in the bunker. I had people to keep me company, books, food. That is, until you locked me away.”

“You became unstable!” Stanford shouted, pulling at his bonds. “You were too masochistic to be let into the world.”

“I had everything I ever knew, everything I ever loved taken away from me because you found me unfit.” The Shapeshifter spat the words, turning from the scientist to the man limp on the floor. He towered over the boxer, Stanley’s chest very faintly rising and falling.

“Let’s see how you two deal with it when something you value is taken away. And you’re in luck, you’ll get front row seats to his demise.”

The Shapeshifter leaned down, getting closer to his prey.

“Wait! Please don’t do this. _Please!”_

He ignored the engineer’s cries. The monster’s jaws unhinged like a snake’s, pincers becoming insignificant to the rows of teeth ready to tear into the boxer’s flesh.

Stanley’s eyes snapped open.

It was the moment he had been waiting for.

Flipping the knife in his hands, Stanley stabbed upwards. The blade sank to the hilt in the creature’s eye.

The Shapeshifter shrieked, taloned hands flying to grope at the foreign object.

Stumbling as his feet slid across the blood soaked floor, Stanley broke into a sprint. The monstrous form floundered on the ground, body flickering in rapid succession. Shifting wouldn’t help him now; he couldn’t reform something that had been gouged out forever.

The tendrils sucked back into the writhing creature. The two hit the ground, the Shapeshifter paying no notice to the trio as he shrieked and contorted in a pool of his own blood. His claws found the slick knife and yanked it from his socket.

“We need to get out of here!” Fiddleford yelped as he stood to his feet. Stanford snatched up his gun.  

“Understatement of the year!” The boxer called back. He shoved them towards the gift shop, feet pounding against the ground. He paused in the doorframe, tossing a look over his shoulder. The Shapeshifter was struggling to get back up, one hand braced against the wall while his legs slid against the wet floorboards.

Stanley looked back to the men in front of him, his brother clutching onto his wound, the engineer, frightened, but still trying to stop the blood from Stanford’s side. They needed time to recover.

“Get in the elevator. Now!”

The boxer threw open the door to the stairs, ushering the two down before closing the door behind himself. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he had with the zombies; he stayed in the back, knuckles posited at the ready. Ford slammed his fist against the call button, the buzz of the elevator traveling down the shaft filling the small room.

A roar sounded overhead, drowning out the faint whirl of the elevator. Something crashed to the floor.

The elevator dinged.

The door above the stairs flew open.

Fiddleford frantically pressed the button to slide the metal doors closed, tapping it repeatedly as if it would speed the whole process up. The metal moved at a snail’s pace, revealing less and less of the monster beyond.

“You can’t keep running!” The Shapeshifter snarled, thundering down the stairs, his remaining eye bulging in rage. His hand stretched out, reaching for the people inside.

Stanley grinned smugly, giving a small wave to the creature as the door shut in his face. The door dented inwardly as the monster behind it tried to break it open. The metal held, the elevator beginning its descent.

A relieved sigh went up from the three.

Arms snaked around the boxer's neck, pulling him down. When Fiddleford released him from the embrace, the man breathed, "I though you were dead."

"I'm still kickin'." Stanley gave him a insouciant grin, "Sucks for you though, you have to put up with me longer." 

"Don't scare me like that again! I thought--" the man was interupted as Ford slumped against the cool, steel wall. He slid down to the floor with a groan.

Fiddleford was crouched at his side in an instant, his hands prying the man’s six fingers away from the wound. By now it was procedural, a habit for the both of them. The Shapeshifter had torn through the sweater, the blood congealing in the fabric. The engineer pulled up the edge of the turtleneck.

“At least take me to dinner first, Fiddleford.” The scientist joked weakly, the glasses skewed from his face. The engineer gave him a tired smile, examining the row of puncture wounds.

“Shut up, Poindexter, that’s my line.” Stanley muttered as he crouched next to his brother. The boxer pushed up the other’s glasses, glancing to the still bleeding gash.

“Stanley you… You saved us back there.” Ford changed the topic, shaking his head slowly.

“By playing opossum,” the engineer added in, sitting back on his heels.

“I was only half pretending. Seriously, I think I might have a concussion.” He crossed his arms, but Stanford could tell by the genial look in his eyes, his comment meant the world to his brother. The scientist hissed, covering up a curse as Fiddleford pressed against his injury.

“I’ll look at you next, if we have time.” The last part sounded almost sullen, the words leaving Fiddleford’s mouth as he stood again. “For now, Stanford, I need you to give me your trench coat.”

The scientist shot him a questioning look but obeyed, pulling himself to his feet with the assistance of the wall. He handed the tan garment to the engineer, who in turn passed it to the boxer. He threw a concerned look to the man against the wall.

“You’re not gonna like this Ford, but… Stanley I need you to rip the coat.”

“What?!”

“This is an emergency! We’ll get you a new one.”

“Steal,” Stanley corrected, tearing a thick strip from the bottom, “We’ll _steal_ you a new one.”

Fiddleford took the strip and wrapped it over the wound before tying it tightly. He repeated the process twice more, the scientist’s face falling with every tear in his favorite coat.

When the engineer was done, he stepped back to examine his work.

“That should do it. It will stop the bleeding enough until we can get you more seriously patched up.”

“Until then, we should probably focus on ridding us of our friend upstairs.” Stanley pointed towards the ceiling. “I mean, we’re pretty much trapped down here. I just thought it was our best option to regroup.”

“We need to find another way to defeat him.” Fiddleford said, “Repeatedly bashing him over the head doesn’t seem to be working. What else could we possibly do to--?”

The engineer’s voice died in his throat. He gulped at the idea that had just occurred to him. With a deep breath, he spoke his mind:

“What if we reactivated the portal?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Stanford said firmly.

“I don’t like it either!” The engineer snapped back. Out of all of them, he was the one who despised the idea the most. But what if it could save them?

“If it opened, could we shove him inside?” Stanley asked.

“It’s too far-fetched. Even if we managed to stabilize the machine, we could get pulled into its gravity field while trying to get him inside. Or, even worse, another rift could be created, one more powerful and volatile. It’s illogical. There has to be another way.”

 A loud clunk sounded from above.

The elevator jumped, the machine freezing mid-descent. Fiddleford fell back, Stanley catching him before he hit the wall. When the boxer pulled away, the engineer latched back onto his coat.

“What was that?”

One by one, the lights flickered off.

The three remained shrouded in eerie darkness, the room silent all but for their heavy breaths. Fiddleford was unable to see two inches in front of his nose, much less the scientist across the room.

His grip on Stanley’s jacket tightened, the man’s arm coming to encircle his waist protectively. Suddenly, the tiny room, which had once seemed like a haven, was cramped, the walls almost too close to breath.

“Stay calm,” came Stanford’s voice on the other side. “Nobody panic.”

Feet thumped across the ceiling of the elevator, the engineer’s eyes blindly following the noise in the darkness. Fiddleford held his breath.

With a deep snap, the world tilted. The engineer was thrown, back hitting the steel wall as he fell. He gripped onto the rail, the floor tilted at an angle.

“What the fu—” Stanley started, but was cut off with another lurch. The feet above them scurried forward.

“He’s cutting the suspension cords!” Ford yelled, face growing ashen. Fiddleford felt his heart drop to his stomach. There was no means of calculating how far they were from the basement, they could be inches, or 12 feet; Stanford had made sure to build it far below the surface.

A hand clutched onto his own, meeting the boxer’s own frightened eyes. He read the expression all too easily: the man was afraid of heights. And now they were doomed to fall to their deaths.

“Brace yourselves!”

The last thread snapped.

The elevator plunged down into the darkness below.

\---

_“—so there I am, dislocated shoulder on one arm and a broken lamp in the other, all alone, because a certain **someone** ran away into the woods screaming and left me behind—”_

_“What?! That’s not even remotely close to what happened.” Fiddleford butted in, his voice raising in exasperation._

_“Yeah, well you did run off.” Stanley repeated. He crossed his arms, the flicker of firelight illuminating his two companions. Ford sat across from them, legs folded under himself as he pushed a marshmallow into the inferno. Fiddleford sat to the right of the boxer, frown becoming deeper by the moment. It was comical to push the engineer’s buttons; the man had a habit of drawing in on himself, only making his thin frame smaller in the process. It was like watching a pissed off armadillo._

_“What else was I supposed to do? Fight off a seven foot gargoyle with my bare hands? We can’t all just throw ourselves headfirst into danger without thinking.”_

_“At least you two managed to defend the lab while I was out,” Stanford commented, bringing a flaming marshmallow from the fire. “I’ll have to make a note that Gargoyles are so adamant about getting their belongings back.”_

_“It wouldn’t have even happened if he hadn’t stolen anything in the first place!”_

_“Hey, we both made it out in one piece. You should be thanking me.”_

_Stanley watched in satisfaction as the engineer’s brain short-circuited, the man looking absolutely astonished._

_“Thanking you?!”_

_“You have to admit, we do make a good team. What with you running around and distracting the thing while I do the punching? It’s a combo that can’t be beat.” The boxer threw an arm around the fuming man, and to his surprise, Fiddleford didn’t push him away._

_“All we need now is Ford to supply the weapons and the information on how to beat up the freaks, and we got ourselves a sweet deal, a Van Helsing type thing.”_

_He casted a look to his brother for approval, finding the man staring at his feet, face slack and pensive. The scientist was thinking, the sight tying knots in Stanley’s stomach. Suddenly self-conscious, the boxer pulled back his arm from the man beside him._

_“You know,” Stanford started slowly; Stanley braced himself or the worst._

_“I think you’re right.”_

_The boxer blinked._

_“Huh?”_

_“You said we’d all make a good team, and I couldn’t agree more. I mean, logically, we have every dynamic covered. Fiddleford and I build and test our inventions, you do the heavy lifting for the lab and occasional defense for the field. Everything would move much faster that way.” Stanford’s eyes were locked onto the fire, unreadable._

_“What are you saying, Sixer?”_

_“Why don’t you come work with us? You’ve already been here for a month, why not move in? You could stay here in Gravity Falls; we have a couple of open rooms in the cabin. It would be beneficial to our research. That is, of course, if you don’t have any other plans.”_

_Stanley felt his heart beat in his throat. After all these years, was Ford actually going to offer him what he wanted? And so casually too? The boxer took a deep breath; he had to play it cool. No one needed to know the truth of how desperate he was._

_“Geez, Ford, what do you take me for, some kind of bum?” He paused, backtracking at the truth behind the statement. “Of course I got places to go. There’s some guys out in Nevada who I haven’t visited in a while, a few people in Columbia…” He failed to mention the men in Nevada had a hit out on him, and the people in Columbia were the Policía Nacional de Colombia._

_The hot air from the fire was suddenly overwhelming, the silence hanging heavily._

_“So… You’re not staying then?”_

_Fiddleford’s voice was quiet, shocking the boxer with the amount of sincerity in his tone._

_Stanley quickly covered his loss of composure with a snort, “What? Are you gonna miss me or somethin’? Do you want me to stay?”_

_“It-It really isn’t my place to decide!” The engineer sputtered, “If you’re gone that means one less mess to clean up after and one less Pines to babysit…”_

_“Aw, well sense you put it so nicely, Fidds,” his grin grew wider as he thought of the nickname on the spot, “I guess I’ll just have to blow all those other clowns off.”_

_“You’re staying?”_

_“You betcha. Can’t get rid of me now.”_

_“Well, it’s settled then, Stanford said with a small smile of his own. He stood, giving his brother a pat on the shoulder before walking to the edge of the clearing. He folded his arms across his back, looking over his shoulder at his twin._

_“Now all you have to do is wake up.”_

_Stanley’s insides went cold._

_“What?”_

\---

“Wake up!”

Hands clamped onto his shoulders. Stanley shot up, immediately regretting the sudden movement as nausea settled in. If he hadn’t had a concussion before, he definitely had one now. He delicately prodded at the knot of the back of his head.

His blurry vision focused on the man in front of him: one side of the engineer's glasses were broken, the man sustaining a particularly bad scrape across his cheek. Half dazed and half because of habit, he reached out to touch Fiddleford, the man leaning into his touch with a relieved smile.

Stanley stood, staggering at first, suddenly aware of the taste of iron in his mouth.

They were in the lab, the damp air chilling him to the bone. Looking to the ruined elevator doors, dented metal cut and twisted as if it were clay, the doors jammed open a tiny sliver. He could only imagine the damage inside.

So they hadn’t fallen to their deaths. Well, that was one horrible way to die ruled out.

“Where is he?” The boxer croaked, wiping the blood from his lips with a forearm.

“Ford’s here,” the engineer coaxed, eyes shifting to the scientist leaned against the wall, a hand pressed to his side. The blood had seeped through his bandage and through the sweater.

Stanley shook his head, “No, I meant—”

“He meant me.” The growl came from behind the elevator doors, claws sliding between the cracks and making child’s play of the steel.

The Shapeshifter stood straight and tall, despite the blood trickling from his eye.

“You three put up quite the fight, but now it’s time to throw in the towel.”

“Please,” Ford began, pushing himself from the wall, “you don’t know what you’re doing. Bill Cipher plans to destroy the galaxy, and you along with it. I don’t know what he’s promised you--”

“He’s promised me a place in the world. He gave me knowledge, books, he’s guided me thus far and hasn’t lead me astray. For once, you’re the one who has no idea what he’s talking about.” The Shapeshifter shoved Ford back as easily as if he was a feather, the scientist landing on the floor. He smirked, watching from the corner of his eye as Fiddleford held the boxer back.

“I’ve gotten what I’ve come here for. I wanted revenge, to see you all pathetic and weak as you kept me for so many years. And once I fulfill this, I’ll be part of the new world order.”

“You’re a fool.” Fiddleford spat.

“No, _you’re_ the fool. I have no use for you anymore. I’ve had my round, watching you all squirm under my hand has been enough. I’ve had my revenge. It’s time for the real fun to begin.”

The shapeshifter held his arms out, palms open to the air. With a gush of wind, his hands ignited in blue flames.

The hairs on the back of Fiddleford’s neck prickled. Fear crept into his heart, knowing all too well the transfer of entities taking place before him.

“The deal was I tire your fragile human bodies out, get you to your breaking point, but no further. He wanted the satisfaction of finishing you off himself.”

The trio could do little but look on as the Shapeshifter’s remaining eye rolled into the back of his head. The body convulsed and fell limp before being lifted into the air in the blue glow of the pyre. Laughter, starting slow but growing to a crescendo belted from his lips, pincers stretched wide in a manic smile.

He blinked, a long, black slit emerging for a pupil.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting one eye, but how cozy!” It was still the Shapeshifter’s voice, but the pitch was too ecstatic, as if he was in a constant state of screaming.

“Cipher?” Stanford gulped, pushing himself upright again.

“Right on the money, Sixer!” Bill flexed his newfound body, leaning back to observe the multitude of legs. “This thing _is_ deluxe.”

He started forward, gaining ground on them slowly as he learned to use the form.

“And the whole gangs here! Wow, I didn’t think I would ever see you guys again, especially since that wise guy decided to **_shut down the portal for good_**.” Fiddleford flinched as the demon’s octave dipper lower; Bill snickered.

“No matter, I’ll have the rift in the palm of my hands soon enough. I’m hoping this is the reality where you scream and beg me not to take it, and I get to shatter it right in front of your dumb faces! Of course, I know you won’t give it up that easily, but that’s half the fun! Besides, you know what the next best thing is to gaining my own physical form?”

The rhetorical question hung over the shocked silence. The three exchanged a knowing glance, aware of just how unfit they were to take down Bill Cipher.

“No answers? Not even an educated guess? Fine, fine, I’ll tell you. The next best thing,” the demon took a step forward, his body twisting into some sort of green monstrosity, “with my omnipotence,” he changed again, something Fiddleford vaguely recognized from the journal, “and this body’s unlimited power of adaptation,” a girl flickered, then a Gremloblin, before halting back on the Shapeshifter’s own form—

“I can use the power of any being in the multiverse. **_So I suggest you had over the rift before I have to destroy you_**.”

The room fell too quiet. The very air felt thick, too crowded. Fiddleford looked to Ford, the man’s pupils darting back and forth, looking for some answer, any answer that wouldn’t result in the death of the universe.

But there was simply none.

_“ **Well? What’ll it be?** ”_

Stanley threw an arm out in front of his brother. He gave the man a stern look before stepping forward. He let out a slow stream of breath, opening his coat to pull from it a ball wrapped in black cloth.

“Good choice! Oh, but you don’t take me for an idiot, do you? Show it to me.”

The boxer, face hard as stone, lifted an edge of the cloth, revealing a hint of the glass sphere beneath. Bill Cipher, smile stretched impossibly wide, stepped forward to meet Stan. The two came together, faces shadowed by the blue light flooding through the shattered window.

The demon snatched it up. Stanley took a step back.

Bill Cipher’s claws tapped along the fabric, holding it the way someone might cradle a child. Then, with the flick of a wrist, he pulled the rest of the cloth away, revealing—

The demon’s face fell at the scene inside the sphere: it was not a vortex, but some sort of landscape dusted in cheap, white paint. He flipped it over in bewilderment, watching as plastic snow drifted to the bottom.

His eyes narrowed on Stanley, face blank in utter fury.

“It’s a snow globe; we sell ‘em in the gift shop.” The boxer shrugged sheepishly. “What, did you just expect me to hand over the fate of the world so easily?”

The Shapeshifter—Bill Cipher, they were one in the same now—shrieked. Arms outstretched, fangs bared, he was prepared to rip open the man before him’s throat when he was cut off.

Stanford rushed forward, tackling the demon from the side. The two tumbled through the shattered window, into the open testing room. For a moment, the demon, thrown off balance by his new body, faltered. Stanford gained the upper hand. He shoved the demon’s face into the cold concrete.

“Fiddleford!” The scientist called, pinning the demon, knee pressed between the Shapeshifter’s shoulder blades. Bill hissed beneath him, struggling to comprehend body physics. “Do you remember that thing I told you to never do again? Do it now!”

The engineer set a determined face. He sprinted to the control panel. Fiddleford’s hand hovered over the reactivate button for a moment. He sucked in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and slammed the side of his fist down against it.

The alert sounded, an ugly beeping tone. The clock countdown flashed red: ten minutes. Ten minutes before the portal ran out of fuel. Ten minutes before it would become unstable and fall apart.

Ten minutes until a new rift was formed.

Stanford was shoved back, distracted by the alarm. The demon before him morphed into a creature even he didn’t recognize: red scaly skin, spiked, almost human-like head. He stared, mouth open at the new monstrosity, lost in his analyzation.

“Like what you see?”

Bill’s hand wrapped around his throat.

“Too bad you were too stubborn to join me. I could forgive you, ya know. Just this once if you **hand over the rift**.”

The scientist’s feet were pulled off the ground, the man giving a sharp wheeze. His head swam, the edges of his vision beginning to blur, palms failing to pull the demon’s hands away. Six-fingered hands fell limp at his side.

With the blast loud enough to make the room shake, Stanford fell to the ground, gasping and heaving. The creature Bill had shifted into screeched, stumbling backwards.

“What- What is this?”

Stanley cocked the shotgun, climbing through the window.

“How does it feel to have half a pound of rock salt pumped into your side?”

Bill staggered further back, skin burning. His form flickered from monster to monster, the demon becoming increasingly furious with each new body.

“See, the way I figure it, the thing about having a permanent body is that your pain carries over, no matter what form you take.”

Enraged, and back in the Shapeshifter’s form, Bill turned on the boxer. He ducked under Stan’s swing, catching the man off guard. He sank his teeth into Stanley’s shoulder, digging into the still recent burn scar. The boxer screamed. He bit down harder, feeling his mouth rip into flesh and tendons. Then, as quickly as he had latched on, he was being thrown off again.

“Get off my brother, you bastard!”

Fiddleford pulled up on the switch. The portal, which has been steadily building up, roared to life.

9 minutes.

They continued the brawl, pushing towards the earsplitting hum of the machine. For the first time in a long time, the brothers worked in unison. Stanley threw the first punch. The demon fell back. When Bill tried to retaliate, Stanford cut him off with a kick to the gut of whatever form the demon was currently stuck on. He flipped through them rapidly now, one moment a massive moth-humanoid, the something with entirely too much mouths and not enough skin.

No physical form was strong enough to save him from his own body’s growing list of aches. Exhaustion was setting in; a thin sheen of sweat coating his face.

The glowing vigils encircling the frame picked up in speed, the light contrasting against that of the warning red flashes.

Stanley was pushing himself up off the ground, ready to go in again, when the watch’s alarm began to sound. He glanced down at his wrist. The boxer read the words moving across the screen.

_‘Anomalies imminent at 30 second intervals”._

“Ford!” He warned, his brother holding the demon’s form in a headlock.

The two, both the man and the monster, looked up. Pebbles began to drift up from the ground.

Back in the control room, Fiddleford anchored himself down, grabbing onto his backpack as it floated past.

“T-minus eight minutes.” The robotic voice drowned in synch with the countdown.

The edges of the portal sparked.

Bill tugged free of the distracted scientist’s hold, lunged for his next victim. Stanley whipped around just in time to face the full force of the blow. Claws slashed across his chest. Blood welled.

The boxer fell back, hovering above the asphalt instead of hitting the surface.

With an angry shriek, Stanford tackled the demon. The two rolled through the air, momentum carrying them further, the lack of gravity keeping them levitating. For a moment they hung like that, grappling and clawing what skin they could reach.

Bill smashed into the ground first, his mass working against him.

Stanford plummeted from the air. He hit the floor rolling, chest heaving as the scientist pulled himself back to his feet. The demon was already upon him.

Stanley clambered to his feet across the room. He carefully dragged his fingertips over the gashes in his front. They weren’t too deep, he decided. The boxer had had worse.

His head snapped to attention as a deep, hacking cough sounded over even the insufferable thrum of the portal. Ford crawled away, hunched over as he spat blood from his mouth. With a snicker, Bill drove another kick to the man’s ribcage. The scientist collapsed on the ground.

The boxer bawled his fists. He clenched his teeth together as he stalked towards the demon. He was going to punch Bill Cipher’s lights out if it killed him.

Stanley stopped in his tracks. The color drained from his face.

Ford pulled the Shapeshifter back down. The two sat on the edge of the yellow and black striped line, marking the portal’s gravitational field. Neither seemed to notice the ‘Do Not Cross!’ label.

The boxer found himself unable to speak, to call out and warn his brother, unable to even breathe.

The last time Stanford had fell past that line, he had been sucked into the portal.

All at once, Stanley found his voice again. He was screaming, waving his hands in the air, anything as he rushed towards the two silhouettes in the blinding portal light.

Just as he was gaining ground, his watch resounded once more.

7 minutes.

The vortex split open. The ground shook.

Stanley was lifted off the floor. His eyes met his twin’s, Ford finally understanding the grave situation. The worst part, though, was that the man didn’t look the least bit frightened. The scientist was resigned. He was prepared to sacrifice himself for the greater good.

“No, no, no, please,” Stanley muttered as he flailed in the air, trying to move forward. His stomach churned, but no longer because of his fear of heights. “I just got him back, please—”

His whispered prayers were cut off as he dropped from the ceiling.

To his dismay, so did Stanford and Bill Cipher, falling just over the line. Instead of hitting the concrete, the air held them hostage a foot off the ground.

Ford felt a too familiar tug backwards.

“W-What?!” He heard the demon next to him shriek, suddenly occupied with something other than trying to destroy them. The scientist grinned in satisfaction, Bill Cipher flailed in the air like a child throwing a tantrum.

“What is this?”

“As my brother so kindly stated before, there are some downsides to having a temporal form. Such as gravitational fields. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you the science behind it, correct?”

“What are you doing? Tell him to shut it down! You’ll be sucked into this thing too _. **With me**_.”

A hand clasped Stanford’s own.

“No he won’t.”

Ford turned to the brother, the man anchoring him to their world. Stanley’s arms shook as he tugged the scientist back down, his toes skimming the boarder of the caution tape.

“This time he’s staying here. For good.”

“No. **_No!_** This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen!” The demon screamed, a desperate lilt in his voice. He reached out to latch onto Ford’s leg, the man kicking him it the face instead. With a sharp cry of pain, the demon hurtled backwards towards the portal.

6 minutes.

“Wait! I can give you anything. Sixer, you can be the most brilliant man in the world! I’ll give you a galaxy, immortality, a place at my side—anything!” When the scientist didn’t respond, he turned towards the other man. “Stanley, I can give you riches, recognition, everything you’ve ever wanted! One of you make another deal with me and I can make your wildest dreams come true.”

The boxer pulled his brother over the line, the man landing on his feet beside twin. They watched, hair blown back by the sheer power of the machine before them, as the demon drew neared to the swirling vortex.

“I got everything I need right here.” Stanley replied gruffly.

With an animalistic cry somewhere between fury and frustration, the demon pointed a hooked claw at the two.

“Fine! Don’t think I didn’t plan for this! Don’t think for a second you’re safe once he’s inside that portal! I can think of three other pawns I have at my disposal **_right in front of me_**. I’ll be back!”

“Have a nice trip.”

The Shapeshifter’s legs sank into the blue light, then the rest of his body, arms still stretched out in a silent threat. Stanford swore for a moment he saw the Shapeshifter’s eye lose its pupil before going back to normal.

Bill Cipher was gone.

The scientist suddenly became aware of the impending countdown. The ground quaked beneath his feet, wires snapping and sending sparks below. In the chaos, he spotted the engineer perched in the doorway.

“Fiddleford, shut it down!”

The engineer stayed frozen in place.

5 minutes.

“Fiddleford!” The scientist screamed again, louder this time.

Not even the smallest hint of movement from the man across the room.

“Something’s wrong.” Stanley breathed. He exchanged a glance with his brother before racing towards the control room.

The boxer closed the distance, coming to a halt a few feet in front of the smaller man. He approached slowly, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“We gotta shut the portal down.” He received no response, the man’s face blank.

“Fidds,” he tried again, a hand placed against the other man’s cheek, “you alright?”

Fiddleford blinked out of sync, one eye, and then the other.

A high-pitched whine sounded from behind. Stanley had familiarized it as the laser gun charging. He turned.

Ford aimed the barrel of the gun at the boxer’s chest.

The man blinked.

“Ford, what the hell?”

“Move.” Stanford commanded, eyes large and wild. It only occurred to the boxer now how disheveled his brother looked: hair ragged, face stained with grim and blood. He adjusted his grip on the gun wiping the sweat from his palms

“What’s going on?” The engineer behind him gripped his arm, peeking over the man’s shoulder. His voice shook. Stanley almost let out a sigh of relief; at least Fiddleford was responsive. But he had bigger problems.

“Move. Now.”

The scientist was trembling.

“What are you--?”

“That’s not Fiddleford.”

3 minutes.

He felt the man behind him tense, grip becoming tighter.

“Stanley, I don’t know what he’s taking ab—“

“Did Fiddleford make a deal?” Stanford let his finger hover over the trigger. “Lee, I need to know right now.”

Fiddleford remained silent.

Stanley felt his mouth go dry, the man glancing behind himself at the engineer before answering for him, “Yeah, but it happened a while back.”

Taking a deep breath, Ford tried to stabilize his racing heart, “Was it possession?”

“I don’t know! Why are both of you acting crazy?”

“If it was a possession deal,” Stanford said louder than his brother, cutting him off as he stared into the engineer’s eyes, “then Bill could have worded it to make it permanent. He could use Fiddleford as a vessel anytime he pleased.”

When the boxer looked unconvinced, Ford continued, “He’s a con artist, Stan; something you can appreciate. If he could trick me, he could have done the same to Fiddleford.”

 “But Fiddleford’s _right there!_ Ford, you gotta understand how paranoid you sound right now—”

“That’s not him!”

“Stanley,” the engineer took a cautious step back as he spoke, “I’m me, he can’t be thinking straight. Bill is gone. You saw it yourself!”

“See, he’s trying to trick you! Let me through, Lee.”

The boxer put up an arm, blocking his brother’s passage.

“Ford, don’t do this.”

“Let me through.”

“No.”

An exasperated hiss left Ford’s mouth, the man biting the inside of his cheek to keep his anger controlled. Turning against his brother would be exactly what Bill wanted; he needed to keep a level head.

“Two minutes remaining,” the robotic voice announced aloud, drawing their attention back to the timer.

“Fine, then at least allow me to pass so I can work the controls. If that thing is activated any longer a new rift could form.”

With a sigh, Stanley nodded. He nudged the man behind him further back. Stanford stormed by, pausing to glare into the dark pupils of the engineer, before continuing to the panel. The scientist pressed a button, hand on the switch.

The boxer rolled his eyes, muttering behind him, “Remember what you said to me about giving him some time? I think you’re gonna have to take your own advi— Oof!”

Stanley was shoved aside.

Fiddleford dashed out from behind him. The scientist turned just in time to catch the full force of the blow. The engineer tackled him to the ground, knocking the gun from his hand in the process.

Stanford tried to push up. The man above him slammed him back down. The scientist’s vision went white, the back of his head connecting with the floor. The boxer stood on the other side of the room, dumbfounded.

“For once, can’t you just keep that huge brain of yours to yourself, Sixer?! It only gets you into more trouble.”

_Sixer. Oh._

Eyes wide as the truth dawned on him, and feeling remorse for not trusting his brother, Stanley scrambled to pull the other smaller man away. He snatched him up by the shirt collar. The boxer’s face twisted into horror when the demon started to choke. It was still, technically, Fiddleford’s body. If they wanted him back they needed him in one piece.

The boxer dropped the possessed man in a bout of alarm.

The engineer hit the ground, snatching up the gun. He spun on a heel, the barrel directed to the brothers as he pulled himself up against the wall.

“Stand very still. Don’t move a muscle.” Fiddleford, though he wasn’t truly Fiddleford, commended.

With a grimace, the boxer begrudgingly held his hands up.

“That’s more like it!” The engineer’s smile was all too toothy. He allowed Stanford to rise, gun trained on him the entire way. The scientist leaned against his brother for support, glowering at the smaller man before them.

“Bill.” He said solemnly, his voice hard, “Let him go.”

The man’s smile grew larger at the command.

“Oh, poor Fiddleford,” Bill muttered, voice heavy with sarcasm, “he never saw it coming. You know what he’s doing right now, up there?” He tapped at his temple before continuing, “He’s begging. ‘Oh, no! Please don’t hurt them!’” Bill’s laugh was vicious, loud, and not at all like the one they were used to from the engineer.

“You know, I thought I may run into a few problems at this point. Our contract requires we share a body, not unlike you Sixer. He’s trapped inside his own mindscape; how ironic!”

“Just give him back,” the boxer pleaded. “We’ll give you the rift and everything, for real this time.”

“Sorry, kid, but you had your chance! It’s not that I don’t think you would hand it over for this idiot back, but you Pines have been a real thorn in my side from day one. I’d rather just watch the life fade from your eyes! Now which one of you do I shoot first?”

“Fidds, I know you’re in there.” Stanley called. It was a long shot, but he was running out of options.

“You gotta fight back.”

There was a pause, then Bill scoffed to himself.

“Geez, you humans really are pitiful! He can’t even lift a finger.” The demon shrugged his shoulders, a look of mirth overcoming his features, “Oh well, that’s too bad for you, Stanley, because I believe you just volunteered yourself.”

He turned the gun on the boxer.

“You’re stronger than he is, Fiddleford. I know you can do it; we kinda _need_ you to do it right now. Please…” Stanley gulped, “You have to fight him off.”

Rolling his eyes, Bill Cipher guided the engineer’s index finger to the trigger.

His arm tensed.

The finger twitched, but didn’t move.

The demon frowned, his expression becoming more enraged as he tried again.

He failed.

With a vexed shout, Bill threw the gun to the ground.

“Fine! You won’t let me shoot them? I’ll just create a new rift!”

He flew to the controls, reactivating the portal. The countdown process began where it left off: 60 seconds.

Stanley crossed the room in quick strides, easily prying the man from the control board. The engineer struggled, screaming obscenities as the boxer held him fast, arms pinning the smaller man’s own to his side. The demon hadn’t made the wisest choice in picking the least strong of the trio; a bear hug was enough to keep him restrained.

“There’s a method to fighting him off!” Stanford, still holding the back of his head, shouted. “You can win control back if you concentrate hard enough. It’s still your body, he’s just sharing it. You’re in charge, Fiddleford!”

The demon snarled like a wild animal, legs kicking out uselessly in the air.

Bill pitched his head backwards. With a crack, his skull connected with Stanley’s nose. The boxer dropped him reflexively, hands rushing to his injury. Fiddleford’s form fell to the ground.

30 seconds.

Ford pushed past his spinning vision. He shoved Bill back to the ground, holding the man’s hands behind his back. When he floundered, Stanford whispered a quick apology to the engineer, and shoved him back harder to the concrete.

The blow seemed enough to disorientate the demon.

Stanley flipped the switch again, the countdown ceasing along with the roar of the portal just as the man on the floor began to cough. All attempts to free himself stopped. The two fell silent, exchanging a glance of understanding before looking back to the engineer.

“Ah… My head…” the man groaned.

“Fiddleford?”

“Yes. I-I got the upper hand.”

Stanford shifted his weight, moving to let go of the engineer’s wrists.

“No! You have to keep me like this. He’ll be back. I can’t—” A pained look crossed his face, “I can’t keep this up for very long. He wants me gone.”

Stanley crouched next to the other two, “Well he’s not gonna get that. Ford,” the boxer continued, now addressing his brother, “There has to be something we can do to get him out of Fidds’ head. What did you do?”

“Installed a 2 inch thick metal plate in my skull.” The scientist frowned, “Bill wasn’t in my head when I was doing the surgery, though. I don’t think we could do the same thing with Fiddleford possessed.”

Not letting go of the man’s arms, he pulled him into a sitting position.

“There has to be something,” Stanley repeated, determined to save the man before him. “We gotta be overlooking the solution.”

The engineer knew if they didn’t act fast he could be lost forever. The demon could take over at any time, destroy his friends, destroy the people he loved, and then the world. All while using _him._ Then, in an epiphany, he heard the boxer’s voice from only a day ago, ‘ _There are some things in life you have to put before yourself. There are people worth fighting for_.’

A look of resignation overcame Fiddleford, his face going pale in the red light. As if knowing his plans, Bill fought back. The engineer shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut as his breath became more labored.

“He’ coming back. Stanley, I need you to reach into the bag I brought with us, it should be on my desk, and—”

A different voice flooded out of the same mouth, “No! No, no, no, don’t! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” Bill pushed back against the scientist, Ford tightening his grip.

Stanley stood, rushing to the desk. He wanted to get the demon out of Fiddleford’s head as fast as humanly possible. If he had hurt the engineer so much before, there was no telling what and extended mind battle with the demon could do to him.

His hand plunged into the satchel.

Stanley froze.

_No._

The boxer slowly pulled the memory gun from the bag. A lump arose in his throat.

“Stan, hurry up!” His brother’s voice was white noise against his own internal thoughts. His eyes flickered from the gun to the bag again. Maybe there was something else. Fiddleford couldn’t have possibly meant _this_.

“Stanley!”

Wordlessly, he turned.  Stanford caught sight of what was in his hands. The scientist’s eyes widened.

Bill gasped when his elongated pupils locked onto the memory eraser. The demon fell uncharacteristically quiet.

“Stanley,” the man tore his eyes from the weapon, knowing it was Fiddleford’s voice again, not the demon’s, “you have to type in ‘Bill Cipher’ and pull the trigger.”

“Fidds, I-I can’t.” The boxer stumbled over the words, his voice unsteady. “I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you.”

“It will be okay. I’ve remembered before, right? I can do it again.” The engineer’s forehead creased again as slowly, a laugh built in his throat. The demon’s shoulders shook as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Stanley felt sick to his stomach.

“He’s _lying_! Oh boy, he really did learn something from you two!”

“Bill, shut up or I swear…” Stanford growled.

“You’ll do what? Your idiot brother is too much of a crybaby to even pull the trigger. You both care too much for this hunk of meat and tissue to lay a hand on him!”

“What did you mean by ‘lying’?” Stanley demanded through labored breaths.

“Oh, they don’t know? _He_ doesn’t know?” The demon didn’t seem to be referring to the two brothers at all, rather the man he was inhabiting.

He allowed Fiddleford to come through for a moment, “Bill, please, don’t—”, before cutting him off again.

“You thought he learned? That he had overcome the addition when it was so quick and easy to take the gun to his head, get all those nasty memories out of his skull and start anew? He told you he quit cold turkey for no other reason that for you begging him to?”

“I…I…” Stanley was at a loss for words. The gun trembled in his hands.

“He quit because he’s a coward, not for any of you. Because his mental stability is on a balancing beam here, kids. One more might send him toppling over!”

“Wh-what does that mean?”

“The human brain can only take so much. He’ll lose all sorts of memory functions, practically no short term memory, anything that could be recovered would disappear. His hippocampus will be fried! Do you get what I’m saying? One more blast and its lights out for his sanity. Permanently!”

The room fell deathly silent. Stanley swallowed, desperately trying to keep his composure, but the lump in his throat just wouldn’t leave.

They were going to lose Fiddleford either way.

There was nothing he could do to save him. Did the man deserve to become something entirely different, the demon destroying all of Fiddleford’s morals and the people he held close, or did he die out in a fit of insanity, losing recognition of everything and everyone? Stanley gulped. The engineer would forget everything they had had together, would most likely even forget the boxer.

“You have to do it!” Fiddleford’s voice was strangled, sweat breaking out over his skin. “Please, it’s the only way. We can’t let him destroy the world.”

“But,” The boxer angrily wiped at his eyes as he felt the prickle of tears, “Fidds…” His voice broke.

“I can’t lose you again.”

“It’s the only way.”

“No!” He hadn’t realized how loud he had screamed the word until the two flinched. “There’s another way to fix this! There has to be…”

“Stanley…” The engineer said it so softly, the way one would only address a lover. “You can’t be a hero this time. You can’t always save everyone. But it’s the only way to save yourself and the rest of the world. Please. You have to do this.”

The man glanced to the gun in his hands. He alone had the power to destroy the only thing he loved. His chest heaved, the boxer holding the memory gun out before him, aimed at the engineer on the ground.

“Don’t do this, Pines! He’ll be lost forever!” It was Bill voice again, panicked. The words were cut off, the voice going from harsh to the engineer’s soft, accepting tone again.

“I love you.”

“I…” Stanley faltered, tears rolling freely down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out.

Stanley pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to note that I had the ending of this chapter written from a very early point on, waaay before the finale, so I was surprised to see that this somewhat matched up in theme! 
> 
> Only one chapter left! Thank you all for the continued support. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, leave a kudos, or even better: a comment! Those both fuel me to put out work faster. Thank you!


	21. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is still one last person to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, the final chapter. I'm still baffled I made it this far. After 150,000 words, and nearly 300 pages all put together, this was my largest project yet! Thank you to all who have read this far! I hope you enjoy this final installment! 
> 
> Warnings: hospitals, blood, and the death of a salamander who truely deserved better 
> 
> This chapter also alludes to the end of chapter 17. So, if needed, I suggest re-reading the final few paragraphs of chapter 17 before starting this.

He had heard it said that before one dies, their life flashes before their eyes. But for Fiddleford, this wasn’t true. There was only Ford behind him, Stanley staring at him down the barrel of the gun, and the demon inside of his mind, plaguing him.

Then there was the hot flash of white.

His memories slipped from his grasp like papers scattered along the wind. The engineer didn’t try to pull them back in, rather, he watched them go without a fight.

Fiddleford’s mind crumbled away until he succumbed to the vacant feeling once again.

\--

“You know, it’s funny,” Stanley muttered, though it wounded more bitter than humorous, “Fidds always considered himself a coward, but he saved us. He never knew what he was capable of until the end.” Downing another cup of coffee, the boxer silently played his last moments with the engineer again in his mind.

Ford sat back in the stiff chair with a sigh, fingers running under his glasses to rub at his tired eyes. He stole a glance at his brother, the man hunched over in his seat, face scrunched up in thought. For the first time he noticed how deep the dark circles under Stanley’s eyes had gotten, and couldn’t help but wonder if the same was true for himself.

The two hadn’t slept in thirty hours, or even left the hospital for that matter. Thirty hours of dealing with doctors and nurses, or, more accurately, thirty hours of his brother pestering the professionals. He followed at their heels, not only with a multitude of questions, but demands as well. The boxer had become so fed up at one point he had almost picked a fist fight with one practitioner until Ford had dragged him away.

The hustle and bustle of the hospital had died down in the more recent hours, just after dusk. Less screaming children, less happy reunions, the entire facility seemed to become a ghost town. The whole world had fallen silent in mourning. All that remained were the faint beeps of heart monitors, snippets heard from cracked doors, and nurses whispering in the hallways of a ‘new case study’.           

Ford was sure Stan had heard the mutters hounding behind them as they traversed the place. People offered their sympathies, shooting pitiful looks their way. He always caught the boxer scowling at that, fists clenched so tight his hands shook.

Fiddleford had been asleep for five days.

“Not quite a coma,” Dr. Weber assured them, “we don’t want to call it that this early on. Sometimes patients who go under a very stressful situation need time to recuperate. Besides,” she had rested her hand on Stanley’s arm, “it’s been a long time since there’s been a case like this in this hospital.”

The boxer had jerked away, giving her a hard stare, “You can fix it, right?”

He knew her guise too well, the poker face of a doctor about to deliver bad news.

“Well,” she fidgeted with her dark hair, another tell, “medically speaking, it’s new. We’ve gone ahead and run an MRI while he’s unconscious, but we’ve found no signs of physical ailments. There’s no internal bleeding, no bruising—nothing.”

“So… not good news?” Stanley didn’t understand half of the medical colloquialisms, but he caught Ford’s shoulders drooping out of the corner of his eyes.

“But no bad news either,” Dr. Weber asserted again. “Frankly, my team and I are just as baffled. What we can do, though, is run an EEG. We just hook him up to a few wires and basically read his brain waves for any deficiencies. That should clear up exactly what’s going on inside his head.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Stanford asked, stepping forward in his twin’s silence.

“Like I said, he could wake up at any time. Often, when patients collapse under mental stress and finally regain consciousness, the results aren’t… the easiest to take in. I just ask you two be present when he finally does wake up; seeing familiar faces might calm him down.”

 _Familiar faces?_ The scientist watched his brother shrink back at the phrase. He felt a physical ache in his chest at his twin’s unusually taciturn nature.

Dr. Weber shot them a peculiar look before ushering them out once more, preparing for the EEG.

From there, they had ended up at their current position: corralled in what seemed to be half breakroom, half waiting area. Ford was grateful of the late hour; at least no one would awkwardly shuffle by them to get to the vending machine. But still, a dark cloud seemed to hang over the room.

The boxer grimaced as he sat up straight. They were brothers, not strangers. Yet they had been tip-toeing around the other as if they were at a loss for conversation, each consumed by their own grief.

Stanley opened his mouth to speak for no other reason than to break the heavy silence between them, announcing the first thing that popped into his head.

“Hey Ford, do you remember when we found that humongous jellyfish back on Glass Shard Beach?”

The scientist blinked in surprise; he hadn’t thought about that in years, though the memory seemed clear as day.

“I remember being _stung_ by that giant jellyfish.”

The boxer snickered, “You were poking at it ‘for _science_ ’.”

“I seem to remember _someone else_ also getting stung by the same creature.”

“Yeah, but that was only so Ma wouldn’t get mad at you alone.”

Stanford fell quiet for a moment, this time the silence much more comfortable.

“Why?” He asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow, “Why are you bringing this up now, of all times?”

“I-I…” The boxer gulped, eyes focusing on his feet, “I’ve just been thinkin’, ya know? About what it would mean to have all your memories taken from you. All that makes up who I am is just sorta sitting up here,” he tapped his temple, “every second of every day from when we were just kids to right now. If it all got taken away I…I’ve been wonderin’ what I’d miss the most.”

Stanford let out a slow breath. He knew this would relate back to the engineer’s memory loss. And yet, he couldn’t help but pose his brother’s question to himself. What would he miss the most?

All of his life had been goal-orientated: get to a good school, get a degree and a grant, and work on making himself known in the science world with his paranormal research. But the portal had almost destroyed the universe, and not much of the in-between was filled with pleasant memories. Come to think of it, the scientist realized, most of his happy memories were either back when he was younger on Glass Shard Beach, or the more recent years, when they had become a trio.

Now they were down one member.

“Do you remember last summer when it was too hot to do anything? You, Fiddleford, and I turned on every fan we owned, found your hoard of hidden ice cream, and just watched movies all day?” Stanford posed the question.

“That’s your favorite memory? You complained it was ‘a waste of time’ all day!”

“At least my fondest moment isn’t getting stung by a jellyfish.”

“That’s not my fondest memory.” The man crossed his arms defensively.

“Then what is?”

“I dunno.” He scratched at his five o’clock shadow, voice falling from its usual zeal to something more reserved. “I got the portal started back up the same day that Fiddleford finally remembered everything, so that was…” he let out a quiet, breathy laugh, “that was something.”

His smile grew smaller, but more sincere, “Do you remember a few years back, when we got stuck in the forest? It got dark and we were too far from home to make the hike back so we set up a camp for the night?”

“You mean when we were in immanent peril of the Leshy?”

“Yeah, well, besides that. There was just this… Content feelin’ to the place after we managed to calm down. Fiddleford got so nervous to play his banjo in front of us, and when he saw how much we enjoyed it he got this big, stupid grin on his face.” The boxer bit his lip, knowing his lingering would only bring him more heartbreak. “Plus, you and me weren’t at each other’s throats for once.”

“Probably because we were too busy stuffing marshmallows into our mouths.” The scientist commented, earning a snort from his brother. His gaze softened, eyebrows furrowing. It occurred to him that he and his brother had hardly had a peaceful day between them in an insurmountable amount of time.

“When… When did we become like this, Lee? Why did we start bickering and just never stop?”

Stanley shrugged his shoulders, “We grew up. I spent the last ten years of my life pretty much hating your guts. We aren’t kids anymore, Ford.”

“At least we aren’t fighting now.”

“Yeah, and all it took was something terrible to happen to bring us to our senses.” The boxer muttered sourly. “Heh, if only Fidds could see us now. He always tried to get us to stop arguing, ‘course he won’t remember that now.”

The boxer seemed to physically deflate with the words.

The scientist shook his head, “Don’t say that. He’s asleep right now, and we’ll have no way of knowing what he will be like when he finally wakes up.”

The boxer bit back his retort. Fiddleford wouldn’t remember them, wouldn’t remember any of it. He had been the one to pull the trigger, he should know the best.

Ford winced as a look of remorse flooded his brother’s face.

“Stanley, what would Fiddleford say if you were the one in his condition?”

“He’d probably call me an idiot,” the boxer snickered at his own joke, “and yell at me for being ‘self-sacrificial’.”

“But we both know he’d stop at nothing to get you back.”

Stanley let out a slow stream of breath, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he sat back, “Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind bein’ an amnesiac all that much. Especially if I get to forget my early twenties.”

“When Pops evicted you?” At his brother’s nod, Ford continued, “Were those first five years that awful? You never really spoke of them around me.”

“They weren’t pretty. And it’s a long story, you don’t wanna hear that.”

“We have time.” Ford said quietly.

Stanley set his jaw, an ongoing war of what information to let slip waged in his mind.

“Okay. But only if you tell me about what happened to you in the portal.”

“Deal.”

Footsteps clapped down the hallway, the telltale sign of something charging by. The two turned their heads as a nurse rounded the corner, hand pressed against the doorframe for support as his chest heaved. Sweat dripped from the boy’s mop of blond hair.

“Are you two the Pines?”

They stood uneasily, exchanging a glance before Stanley answered,

“Yes.”

“Dr. Weber sent me to come find you and bring you back. You’re gonna want to see this.”

The nurse took another gulp of air.

“He’s awake.”

\--

Even though the man’s back was turned to them, Stanley knew the engineer was trembling. The way he held himself, shoulder’s pitched forward, arms drawn in around himself as he stumbled about, legs still feeling the faint holds of entropy, gave away just how terrified he was.

As another nurse stepped forward, hands held before them, the man’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he flinched. Stanley was sure if the room hadn’t been soundproofed he would have heard the real thing, the same shriek he had heard when the engineer first began to remember.

They had been in the monitoring room when it happened: Fiddleford’s eyes had snapped open, the man working himself into a frenzy as he tugged the equipment free from his skin. Now, a group of practitioners had gathered to look on through the one-way glass, watching their most curious case of the year.

When the twins had arrived the crowd parted like a sea. Once again the two were flooded with looks of condolence. The boxer grit his teeth and bared it. He thought about socking someone, anyone, just to drink in the shocked look on their faces. His pain was not theirs’ for the viewing.

The room, which had broken out into whispers, fell silent as Dr. Weber opened the door. Her nurse scampered out from behind her, before shutting it again.

Weber snapped off her gloves with exasperation, tugging the two brothers aside by the arm without as much as a warning.

“He seems to be experiencing an extreme case of paranoia, maybe even psychosis. Whatever it is, he’s extremely skittish, and has worked himself into a panic.”

She shot a glare to the few assistants listening in, before beginning more hushed, “This started around half-way through the procedure. It’s not unusual for a patient to wake up in an unknown place and experience fear, but I’m afraid his stress levels could rise to harmful measures. His files say he was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, correct? If I’m going to get the test results back, and continue to try and medicate him, one of you need to get in there and calm him down.”

The boxer, still focused on the window, watching the back of the engineer’s head intently, only made sense of a fraction of her words. He was caught off guard when his brother’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Stanley, you should go.” He didn’t need to explain why, his expression said it all.

“What- What do I say to him?” Stanley suddenly didn’t seem like the broad shouldered man he was, rather like a child, insecure and unsure of his actions. It was as if they had never left New Jersey.

“I don’t know.” Ford’s eyebrows furrowed as he slowly shook his head. “Tell him the truth, but don’t overwhelm him.”

With a gulp of breath and a quick nod, the boxer squared his shoulders.

He could do this, just one step at a time. Stanley willed himself to turn from Dr. Weber and Ford, once again pushing through the crowd before his hand connected with the cool door handle. He twisted it and stepped inside, not giving himself another moment to dwell on the matter.

 _Alright,_ he cheered himself on, _just one foot after the other, Stan_. Left, then right, then left, then—

The engineer turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, giving the boxer a glimpse of his face.

Fear mirrored fear, blue eyes staring up at the newcomer as if he had come to slaughter him, and brown eyes terrified that they recognized the look on the engineer’s face.

In that one instant, Stanley knew the man remembered nothing.

Though, something must have clicked in the engineer’s brain, because after a few minutes of their silent staring contest, his gaze became more confused that terrified. Still frightened, but more curious. The boxer’s face seemed to resonate somewhere in his blank mind.

Stanley took a step forward.

Fiddleford took a step back.

“Um,” the boxer started, swallowing thickly, “hey.”

The engineer blinked at the voice. The memory was just out of his grasp.

Hope flaring in Stanley’s chest, he took a step a bit too quick, too sudden.

With a sharp gasp, the engineer drew back, feet tangling together. He fell back into a side table. Its contents—notes, cords, medical instruments the boxer didn’t even recognize—were scattered across the floor. Stanley remained glued to the spot, not daring to move any further. When Fiddleford sat back up, he was cradling the back of his hand, eyes widening as blood spilled from a small cut.

“Oh, shit, I-I’m sorry.” The boxer grimaced as he stuttered. His hand flew to his pocket automatically, unware of the movement until the man below him shrunk away again.

“It’s just a band-aid.” Stanley held out his hand to display the colorful strip in his palm. Carefully, he crouched down until he was face to face with the engineer once more. Fiddleford kept his stare locked on the man the whole way down, eyes squinted in suspicion. The boxer stuck a hand out, motioning for the man to come forward.

Fiddleford hesitated.

“C’mon, I’m not gonna bite.”

The engineer inched closer, holding out the cut.

The boxer moved in slow, deliberate movements, unwrapping the plastic around the bandage before cupping the injured hand with his own.

“Just thought since you patched me up so many times, I should return the favor. You were the one who made me keep them on me in the first place. You said,” he paused with a small laugh, “I had too much bad luck not to keep a wad of them in my pockets at all times.” He ran a finger along the smooth plastic, sealing it to the skin.

“You don’t remember that, though, do you? Do you… Do you remember _anything?_ ”

The engineer very slowly shook his head, looking more puzzled by the moment.

“Do you remember you name?”

Again, there was the slow, silent ‘no’.

Stanley struggled to find words, his shoulders sagging. How many times was he going to have to run through introductions again? How many times would he give the man his name only to have it evaporate along with its meaning?

“Well,” he ran a hand through his hair nervously, “your name is Fiddleford. Kinda geeky, I know, but it fits you.”

The engineer’s lips moved, mouthing the name but making no sound. He bit his lip, looking sure.

 _Well,_ the boxer thought, _at least that clicks._

“I’m Stanley. You and me were… Well, we were a lot of things. We can get into that later. Dr. Weber wanted me to come in here and talk you down so you can go back to your room. Do you think you’re up for that, yet?”

After a moment of consideration, Fiddleford nodded.

Stanley pulled himself to his feet, offering out a hand.

Fiddleford took it.

\--

Stanley knocked on the door in a short pattern, feet tapping as he tried to contain his excitement. The grin splayed across his face practically reached his eyes, hands holding the small parcel under an arm.

In the last two weeks, he had become accustomed to the hospital. It began to smell less like death, and more like disinfectant, which, he considered a small victory. The twins spent more time in the hospital than at the Shack. The nurses knew him by name, and would frequently ask how the engineer was feeling. He would give the standard reply, “Better, I hope,” before excusing himself.

He was confident, however, if half the hospital could learn who he was, then Fiddleford could as well.

The door opened, the man behind him looked as happy to see the boxer as the other felt.

His eyes were bright, blond hair combed down, his appearance neat and orderly. The engineer had improved tremendously since the day he first woke up. He no longer feared the number or doctors cycling through his room.

The moment he had latched onto Stanley’s hand after being coaxed out of his panic, he had never truly let go. The man was a constant in his tumultuous life. He had been incredibly patient with his explanations, staying by his side for support whenever he needed it. He had grown the same fondness for the man’s brother, Ford, but not to the same extent.

“Oh hey, they let you back into your street clothes instead of that weird gown thing. Why don’t they just let you get out of this place already?” Stanley asked as he swept past the other man.

They both already knew the answer to the question.

\--

“He can’t speak?”

Weber held her hands up in reassurance, her face impassive.

“Occasionally, there are reports of patients going mute for periods of time after shock. It’s a psychological thing, no vocal damage whatsoever. It can be temporary, he could very well overcome it as long as he recovers at his own pace and with a bit of therapy.”

“But that’s not why I want to talk to you today, Mr. Pines.”

She shifted forward in her seat, folding her palms across the flat surface of the desk. Stanley fidgeted in his seat. He had been waiting for the ‘okay, tell me the truth of how this happened’ chat, but he hadn’t expected it to come so quick. What did he blame it on? A car crash? Falling down the stairs? A giant woodpecker? And he didn’t even have Ford at his side to be in on the elaborate tale he would make up!

“Have you ever heard of something called retrograde amnesia?”

The boxer crossed his arms, mind still spinning at the fact Fiddleford couldn’t speak; how was he supposed to nag them constantly? Stanley realized he would actually _miss_ the engineer’s constant badgering.

“Mr. Pines?”

He blinked, the room coming into focus again.

“Listen, my brother is the one who gets that medical mumbo-jumbo you guys are always spoutin’. So you might be better off explaining it to him first.”

“I will when it’s time for his shift, but you need to know now.”

“Retrograde amnesia,” she started again, “is when all events prior to the accident are erased form the patient’s mind.”

“So that’s what Fiddleford’s got?”

“Yes, but not quite.” She licked her lips nervously, avoiding eye contact with the man before her, “We’ve taken a lot of scans, Mr. Pines, _a lot_ of them. Each of them show signs of… degradation.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s not getting better. And he probably won’t make any more improvements.”

Weber held her breath, ready for the oncoming storm.

Stanley was surprisingly quiet. The doctor was shocked, to say the least, at how well the man was taking the bad news, until she saw his hands shaking with how hard he was gripping the chair. He took a deep, stuttering breath. His very life was unravelling around him and he could do no more than take in the doctor’s words and shiver in his own empty numbness.

“B-But… that can’t be right. He _is_ getting better.”

“There’s some sort of malfunction in the limbic system. We’ve never dealt with this type of thing before. I’ve called other professionals, neuroscientists and the like, but we’re not quite sure how to handle it. It’s practically unheard of in the field. It’s like a disease, it’s… spreading. His mind is deteriorating. We believe he may even begin to experience symptoms of anterograde as well.”

Stanley opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but Dr. Weber cut him off, “Eventually, I don’t believe he will be able to form new memories. It will start with forgetting trivial things, but it could evolve into a kind of very, very, early onset dementia.”

Dr. Weber didn’t think the man before her could look more devastated, but he made it possible. His face turned ashen, drained of all color, as if it was his death sentence she had just proclaimed.

She rose from her chair. Dr. Weber had been through her bedside manner enough times to know now was the mourning period, the time to give the family and friends space, let them take it all in. She turned to leave, the boxer catching her arm before she could go.

“You said it was spreading, so it hasn’t affected him yet, right? So there might be a way to stop it?”

“Mr. Pines, I hardly understand the situation myself. We’ve never handled a case like this before, no one has.”

“Do you think if I could get him to remember, then it would stop triggering the rest of this? If his memories came back it could stop the whole reaction.”

She paused, then with a small sigh, pulled free from his grasp, “I suppose but… There’s not a lot of research done on this kind of thing in the medical world. Amnesia itself is mostly unknown, much less whatever this is.”

“But if it’s like a sickness, then getting him back to his original state would be a cure?”

“Stanley.” She said a little more sharply, eyes empathetic. “I’m sorry. We’ll keep running more tests, but we can’t promise anything. I’ve done everything in my power.”

And with that, she left the room, not allowing herself to give the man anymore false hope.

But Stanley had already devised a plan.

\--

The boxer blinked in surprise as Fiddleford gently shook his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. He gulped, pushing down the doomed feeling that came along with the engineer’s impending insanity. Stanley had decided he would save him, or die trying, all while being as cheerful as possible.

The engineer was wrong about not being able to save everyone, Stanley truly believed in his heart that he could rescue the man.

“Sorry,” the apology rolled off his tongue as easily as the numerous others that came from his lips these days, “just got caught up for a second there. Anyways, you’re not going to believe what I found!”

Fiddleford signed the motion for, “What?” The two had been working on learning ASL, but had only been able to grasp the basics in what little time they had.

Stanley answered only by sitting on the side of the bed and patting the place next to him. As the engineer settled down beside the larger man, the boxer pulled the bag out from under his arm, dumping on the contents on his lap.

Polaroids spilled from the satchel, the engineer counting around 25 before giving up.

“Isn’t this amazin’, or what? I found a whole pile of them stored away in our—in your room. I knew we took a lot of pictures over the years, but I didn’t really think they would ever come in handy.”

The engineer plucked one at random from the pile, eying the slick film. After a moment, he nudged the boxer beside him and pointed to the scene displayed. The three were covered from head to toe in soot, the only untouched surface was the whites of their eyes. Stanley was in the front, the camera in his hands as he took it, captured mid-laugh. The scientist and engineer behind him looked less amused.

“Oh, this one?” Stanley gently pulled it from the man’s hand, fingertips brushing along his palm. Fiddleford perked up to listen as he gathered the rest into a neat stack.

“You and Ford were cooking up some sort of stunning thing to stop monsters from coming after us so much. It was like a science-y smoke bomb, so we could get away easily if the going got tough. Long story short, it went off in the lab. I demanded a picture, mostly for blackmail.”

The engineer snorted, shouldering the boxer before taking the picture back. He placed it at the bottom of the pile, shuffling through the stack. Fiddleford went past the photos: a picture of Stanford looking very thoughtfully at a fanged plant, a shot of the night sky from the view of the rooftop balcony, framed by the dark landscape below, one of the brothers playfully shoving each other…

He paused on the next one to feature himself. The two figures were distant from the photographer, sitting among a field of wildflowers. The scientist was hunched over, sketching in his unmistakable red journal, while Fiddleford seemed to turn just in time, smiling accusingly at the camera. The next photo was blurry, but of the same landscape, the engineer marching towards the camera with a determined look on his face.

“Oh, those are some good ones!” The boxer’s smile grew wider as he retold the story, “You two were studying mole people or whatever and sketching out possible entrances to their lair and I thought you both looked too nerdy to miss the opportunity. Then you got annoyed with me for taking it.”

He didn’t mention that seconds after the photo was captured, he was tackled to the ground. The Polaroid had been discarded somewhere in the dirt as the engineer laughed, perched atop the other man. He recalled the sun’s warmth beating on his face, hands skirting fabric, sitting up and finding Fiddleford smiling down at him with a grin brilliant enough to rival the sun, holding the man close until Ford cleared his throat and declared it was time to head back.

Fiddleford placed the photo at the bottom of the stack. The next that greeted him was a shock. He was curled up on the sofa with his head rested against the boxer’s chest. Both were fast asleep.

Stanley snatched the photo away, practically growling the name of the man who had taken the photo, “Ford…”

 He knew he should have checked the pile beforehand, but he had let his excitement get the better of him. He was so keen to recover the man’s memories before it was too late.

“We fell asleep watching movie,” the boxer stated flatly, adorning his best poker face. “Ford probably took it for blackmail.”

Thankfully, nothing in the rest of the pile had anything incriminating, alluding to their more than friendly relationship. Only a few blurred pictures of cryptids and some more photos of the three goofing off remained.

“So, uh, that jog your memory any?”  Stanley asked, unable to hide the hopeful tone in his voice.

Fiddleford’s smile fell, his forehead creasing. The engineer scooted away from the other man as he handed back the photos with a slow shake of his head. He didn’t just look sad, he looked _guilty_.

“Oh, no, no _, no_ ,” Stanley pleaded, pulling the engineer back with an arm around his shoulder, “Don’t you go thinkin’ this is your fault, because it’s not.”

 _It’s mine_ , he didn’t say. If there was one thing in the world the boxer stood for, it was shouldering other people’s guilt. And when it got too much and he failed, the disappointed feeling would be passed onto himself. He replayed the moment he pulled the trigger in his head, the moment he ruined the engineer’s life. Hell, maybe the man was doomed from the moment the boxer walked into his life.

The blast from the memory gun was both a curse, and a motivator. And as much as he desperately wanted to do so, Stanley couldn’t go back. He couldn’t change the past, only work with the present to alter their future.

“Well, that lead fell flat.” The boxer scoffed at himself, leaning his elbows against his knees as he shifted forward, “I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of any help.”

Fiddleford frantically shook his head, ‘No!’ The engineer reached to the bedside table to pull out a notepad and a pencil. He scribbled across the page, not breaking eye contact with his own curly handwriting until it was finished.

He displayed the message to the man at his side: _‘Don’t say that! You did help. Looking at the photographs gave me a sense of Déjà vu. If nothing else, at least I know more about myself.’_

The boxer’s gaze softened. But the damage had been done, he knew he’d just have to find something bigger and better to bring next time. But, for now—he took the pencil from Fiddleford’s hand and wrote back a message of his own.

He passed the notebook back, now complete with a doodle of an enhanced version of Stanley himself: winking at the viewer, a massive sword held in the air as his hair flowed in the wind.

Fiddleford laughed, his shoulders shaking as he covered his mouth with a hand. With a huge smile, he signed the word for, “past,” and pointed to the longer hair in the sketch. The engineer raised an eyebrow.

Stanley deadpanned.

“Are you telling me that you remember me havin’ a mullet, but that the pictures did nothin’?”

Fiddleford shrugged his shoulders, grin still plastered across his face as he leaned against the boxer beside him. Stanley found himself hypnotized into returning the smile. He had forgot just how much he missed the familiar weight of the engineer pressed to his side.

He had started on another doodle—the three of them in a boat—when the nurse poked her head through the door.

“Oh, sorry! Am I interrupting something?”

“Nah, we’re just messin’ around,” Stanley called back. He couldn’t help but notice Fiddleford scoot a fraction away as his face heated up. The nurse, cheery as ever, paused in front of the engineer.

“We have an MRI scheduled for you in about ten minutes. Why don’t you go ahead and head to the back with me?”

Fiddleford blinked, his grin twitching down in confusion.

“Today?” He signed.

“Yeah,” Stanley reassured, “it’s been up there on your chart for about a week now. You were complaining to me about how loud it was yesterday, remember?”

The engineer still looked a little lost, but nodded.

Stanley felt his heart plummet out of his chest, the warnings of Dr. Weber ringing in his ears.

_“It will start with forgetting trivial things.”_

He pushed down the sinking feeling, taking a deep breath as the mattress shifted. Fiddleford rose, and so did the boxer along with him.

The nurse placed a hand against his shoulder. 

“Sorry, Mr. Pines, you know you can’t come back with him.”

Stanley nodded. He would usually argue until he got his way, but this time he found himself speechless.

Fiddleford prodded at his side, eyes inquisitive. The boxer knew the look without needed it to be spoken aloud.

“Don’t worry, Ford will be here when you get back. And,” he dropped his voice, so the nurse couldn’t hear them, “I managed to sneak you in some fast food. Thought it’d be way better than that hospital slop they’ve been feeding you.”

That seemed to cheer the man up, if only a little. Then the nurse was pulling him out of the room, and Stanley, once again, was left alone to face the silence.

\--

Stanley let out a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth as he slammed his fist into the dashboard. Did the universe just _hate_ him? Something out there seemed to want—no, _need_ —to thwart all his plans. The boxer let the back of his head fall against the car seat. His chest heaved, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

 _No_ , he wasn’t going to cry. He was going to do something.

Something drastic.

He muttered an apology to the Diablo before stepping out. The old girl didn’t deserve to be hit, she had helped him through the worst of times, and from the looks of it, was able to block out his childish screams from alerting his brother.

A singular light was on in the Mystery Shack, glowing through the living room window. The breeze that hit him as he stepped out was muggy. Winter had been conquered, spring fast approaching, emphasized by the crickets’ calls filling the air.

He found his brother in the same position he had left him in hours ago: pouring over a cluster of library books, each of them open-paged and scattered over the kitchen table. Stanford hardly looked up at his twin approaching, only gave him a faint wave.

“How did it go today?”

“Terribly.” The boxer didn’t try to hide his bitterness as he trudged past Stanford. He opened the fridge, drinking straight from the carton of milk before replacing it. Ford didn’t bother to scorn the sullen man, rather, he turned back to his books.

“I believe they’re going to rebuke my library card privileges.” He tried to joke, “I can’t tell you how many books on spells and neurosurgery I’ve checked out in the last week.” Actually, he could, he had kept count of all 67 of them. “I think if we could find the right spell, some sort of ancient chant or something of the like, we might be able to restore Fiddleford’s memories.”

“It won’t work.” Stanley muttered, pulling up a chair. He folded his arms over the table, resting his chin against them as he glared at the checkered tablecloth.

Ford closed his eyes and sighed. He stood from the table, grabbing a handful of books as he rose.

“Stanley, you can’t just give up.”

The boxer’s chair scrapped back against the floor with an unpleasant squeal as he sprung back up.

“What did you just say?”

Stanford pinched the bridge of his nose, “You can’t just pout and hope for the best, you have to keep trying.”

“I _have_ been trying!” Stanley fumed, crossing the room to jam a finger at his brother’s chest, “I’ve tried everything, and I mean _everything_. I told him about the portal, about your research, about the monsters, and he just looked at me like I was insane. I’ve shown him pictures, I’ve done some searching of my own, and I can’t find anything that works.”

Except for one thing.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean it that way, Lee.” The scientist frowned, letting his defenses fall. “I know you’re doing your best.”

“But it’s not enough. Nothing I do is _ever_ good enough.” Stanley’s voice wavered, his gaze dropping to the floor, “I never wanted for this to happen. You two don’t deserve to have this happen to you. I’m just a screw up who fucks up everyone’s lives and when I try to fix things I only make it worse.”

The books clattered as they crashed into the floor. The scientist pulled his brother into a hug. Stanley was floored, his hands locked stiffly at his sides. Then, ever so slowly, he brought them up. The boxer held onto his brother for dear life. He couldn’t remember the last time they had made contact that didn’t result in punches.

Stanford, too, found himself caught up in the hug.

He was too busy trying to console his twin to notice the hand slip into his pocket and rob the journal out from under his nose.

“You’re not a screw-up, Stanley. You’re the best brother I could ask for. As long as we continue to try our hardest, we’ll get him back. I promise.”

The boxer only responded with a grunt, his hands clutching onto the back of the man’s coat before he reluctantly let go. He swallowed, pushing past the lump rising in his throat.

“Thanks,” he croaked, taking a step back. Stanford patted his back, offering a sympathetic smile.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, gathering his books once again, “I’m off to keep Fiddleford company. I’ll call if I come across any life-altering conclusions, okay?” The scientist looked on as his brother mechanically nodded, hands folded behind his back, “Until then, try and get some rest. Don’t think I can’t hear you up at night.”

Ford waved, giving his brother a quick glance, before leaving.

Stanley waited until the door had closed with a click to let out the breath he had been holding. He opened the curtain to peer into the driveway. Ford climbed into the car, the engineer came to life, and then the man was gone once again.

The boxer pulled out the red journal from behind his back. His finger skimmed over the dark ‘1’ carved into the golden handprint. He flipped through the first few pages until he found the one speckled with blood, blocking out only a portion of the incantation.

Bill Cipher’s eye, though he knew was only ink, stared back at him with intensity.

Stanley knew what he’d have to do

\--

“So there we are, deep in the swamp,” the scientist wiggled his fingers for emphasis as he told the story, each moving of its own accord, “and you were gone, vanished into thin air. Next thing Stan and I know, we hear a scream and we bolt down the hill as fast as we can, slipping and sliding along the slick terrain. And there you were, trying, though failing, to stand your own with a Gremloblin.”

His index finger smacked the journal open to the monster’s page on Fiddleford’s lap. The engineer jumped, eyes wide as he hung off the scientist’s every word. Stanley spun tales like a con man, sometimes they were cheap enough to see through the seams and pick apart the exaggerations. Stanford, however, had facts and solid evidence, the sheer amount of detail the man committed to memory was astounding.

“Of course, there’s not much one can do in a one-on-one battle with a creature of that magnitude. The Gremloblin was trying to drown you when we got there. The two of us managed to knock it off and get it stumbling back with enough tranquillizers,” he skipped over his own follies, pushing down the hot wash of shame.

“And then the most peculiar thing happened.”

The engineer leaned closer, ears craning to hear.

“You fought it off. Alone. That terrible beast managed to take the fight out of us and render me useless, but _you_ , you just hit it over the head with the butt of a gun! You ended up saving us, Fiddleford. It was impressive to say the least.”

The engineer’s eyes lit up, the man shaking his head in disbelief. He was afraid of things as small and as safe as needles, much less a monstrous creature with neurotoxin embedded in its claws.

“Oh, but you did!” Stanford rebutted, “And it wasn’t the last time either.”

He paused, biting his lip in thought. Slowly, he closed the journal.

“Did Stanley ever tell you of how you lost your memory?”

\--

Stanley took a shuddering breath as he slit the heel of his hand with the pocket knife. The blood pooled in his cupped hand, spilling through the creases and splattering the floor below. His eyes found the white, chalk outline on the wall illuminated by the single light dangling from the attic ceiling.

He had drawn each symbol himself, careful to embellish each detail. He was hardly an artist, but it would work. It _had_ to work. It was his last chance.

He pressed his hand flat against the image of Bill Cipher, palm extended to meet the singular eye. With his uninjured hand, he held the journal before him and began to recite the words before him.

_“Ehlqjv ri wkh dqflhqwv, khdu pb fub, eulqj iruwk wkh ehdvw zlwk mxvw rqh hbh!”_

\--

Fiddleford shook his head, scribbling down in the margins of his paper, ‘ _He only got so far as to tell me about how he had to leave for a while, but I can tell he’s skipping over some key details_.’

The man on the adjacent chair rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly, “I’m not so sure if it’s my place to tell you this. Truthfully, I don’t know all the details myself, only what my brother has quickly relayed to me in the past two weeks.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. Fiddleford deserved to know.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve become an amnesiac.”

The engineer’s gaze became more intense, the man silently pressing for answers.

“You’re a marvelous engineer, really. One of the best in the world. I… I pushed you too far in one of our projects and you used that skill for something other than harmless robotics. You managed to create a device to wipe your memories, partly because of me, and partly because of a demon.”

“Bill Cipher.”

\--

 _"Demons don't die, Stanley,"_ he heard his brother's voice echo in his thoughts _, "they only become trapped or dormant until they can make the next deal."_

The room bled of its color, the boxer’s vision becoming a whirl of grey and white. His hair was blown back from his forehead as the spell took hold. The wheel glowed electric blue before bursting into flames, igniting the outer circle. The triangle in the middle faded to black, then an eye erupted from the center.

A familiar, unforgiving slit of a pupil narrowed in on the man.

Stanley gulped.

Bill Cipher wrenched himself from the wall.

\--

Stanford nodded along. “Yes, Bill Cipher. He was a megalomaniac, a particularly apathetic dream demon who above all wanted to watch the world burn and—”

Ford halted mid-sentence. He backtracked, glancing up at the engineer again to see Fiddleford clamping a hand over his mouth, looking as surprised as the man before him.

“You spoke…?”

“I-I did.” Fiddleford answered, voice hoarse from disuse.

“You’re speaking!” Stanford called louder, triumph ringing in his voice. He flew to his feet in excitement, beaming at his friend. So they _were_ making progress! He’d have to call Stanley at once!

“And you remember Cipher!”

The engineer fell grave at that one. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself defensively as if the memories themselves could swallow him whole.

“Yes. I remember him being in my mind, but not much else other than blurs of screaming and fighting.”

“I have to tell Stanley immediately! Oh, he was so discouraged that you weren’t recalling anything from the past. He’s going to be ecstatic!”

The engineer’s head tilted to the side in confusion,

“Who?”

Stanford froze. His arms fell to his sides. The blood in his veins ran cold, sapping the joy from his heart.

“W-what?”

“Who’s Stanley?”

\--

Stanley held his head up high, refusing to cower before the vicious entity. Bill Cipher held his hands before his triangular form, wiggling his fingers as if he was testing them for the first time.

His eye locked back on the boxer.

“What’s with the serious face, tough guy? You look like you’re a dead man walking!”

“I’m not here to play games Cipher,” the boxer’s voice was low and gruff. He meant business. Come Hell or high water, he was going to save the person he loved.

“I’ve summoned you to make you honor your side of the deal.”

He remembered so many nights ago, before he even got the Shack up and running. When he had first learned of the secret room, of the society, when he had learned exactly what extents Fiddleford had gone to in order to get the Pines out of his skull.

He remembered dozing at the engineer’s side, always ready to spring into action at the faintest sign of a night terror, always on edge. Stanley had been so fed up with Bill Cipher preying on the most important people in his life, he had challenged the demon to confront him in his dreams. It was silent, like an unspoken prayer hurled into the cosmos.

Stanley hadn’t expect a response.

\--

_“Well, well, well! Finally, I get to see the fabled other Pines twin with my own **eye**! What, did you get jealous of me picking on Sixer and Mr. Memory-of-a-sieve over here?”_

_“I… I-I—”_

_“Out with it, sweaty! I got places to be, people to kill, deals to make.” Bill snapped his fingers, conjuring a lawn chair to lay back in for emphasis. He examined his nonexistent nails as he spoke, “I’m an extremely guy and I don’t have all night.”_

_“I wanna make a deal with you!”_

_The demon paused, eye opening wider. If he had a mouth his grin would have been devilish._

_“So, you want to finish what your friends started? Understandable, they don’t have the same trickster spirit you and I both possess. You want to make things even? What kind of deal are we talking here?”_

_“I want Fiddleford’s memories back. And if he ever forgets again, I want them to continue to come back.”_

_“I figured this would have to do with that beanpole over there.” Bill gestured to the two sleeping forms on the bed, curled up in each other’s arms. Stanley looked to his form and for the first time realized he was moving freely without a body._

_“So what could possibly be worth your little boyfriend’s entire collection of memories?”_

_“I’ll give you anything. Just give them back.”_

_“ **Anything?** ”_

_The demon grew in size, his eye engulfing the room._

_Cities had burned at that gaze, and Stanley Pines couldn’t care less if he went up in smoke with them._

_“Anything.”_

\--

So it was a great shock when Bill Cipher, the omnipotent, power-hungry, ruthless dream demon, looked perplexed. He circled around the boxer, floating languidly through the air at the same pace he twirled his cane.

“What deal? I’ve never seen you before in my life, and trust me, apparently I’ve been ‘alive’ for a **very** long time.”

“Don’t play games with me Bill, you know damn well who I am!”

The triangle squinted, halting in front of Stanley’s face.

“Nope, sorry! I’m not even sure why you know my name when I haven’t properly introduced myself.” He tipped his hat, “The name’s B—”

“Yes, I know your name! And you know mine: Stanley Pines. That ring any bells?”

The demon rested a hand under his eye in the same way one might cup their chin when pondering. Then he went rigid again, snapping his fingers in epiphany.

“Oh! You’re part of those three saps I’ve been following around the past few weeks to recover who I was!”

Stanley blinked. The anger that had risen to his chest dissipated as suddenly as it had started. The hand he had raised in defiance fell limply to his side.

“Wait… What?”

“Geez kid, you think I’m going to tell you my whole backstory? I’m not even sure where it begins!”

“Did you say you don’t remember?” The boxer demanded.

“I remember being thrown out of a body and finding you and two other knuckleheads all gathered around vomiting liquids from your eye holes. Honestly, it’s not the best thing to wake up to, I was hoping more of a rave and less of a pity party.”

Stanley took a step back, bringing a hand to his head as his mind reeled.

Fiddleford was a _genius_.

In typing in Bill Cipher’s name he had not only defeated their most powerful enemy, but rendered him as useless as a toddler. Neither had any sort of clue about their pasts. Ultimately, Fiddleford had paved the way to his own salvation as well.

\--

“He was in here a couple of hours ago, showing you the pictures. Remember? He looks a lot like me but fatter and scruffier.”

Fiddleford shook his head.

“Here—look, he’s even in most of them!” Stanford reached for the pile on the stand. The scientist shuffled through them, displaying his twin to the man beside him before gauging his actions. Fiddleford became less respondent with every photo, shrinking in on himself.

“No, I-I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

Fiddleford cut himself off, pressing his palm to his temple. His head pounded, vision edging on white, beating in time with the dull throb. Hands flying to grip the wooden chair, the engineer tried to steady himself as the room shifted.

He glanced up again at the sudden presence of another, the language garbled, his face unrecognizable.

Stanford took the engineer by the shoulders to steady him. Fiddleford looked at him, hands trembling in trepidation.

“What’s happening to me?”

\--

“Regardless of all that, we still had a deal, Bill.”

The demon looked skeptical, “Look, pal, I’ve gathered a lot of information on you three in the past few days, and I know you’re as much of a shyster as yours truly. But,” he sighed, eye narrowing, “if you insist, I can check my records.”

Bill’s arm skirted the perimeter of his form until both of his limbs were on the same side. He clapped, a grey filing cabinet generating against the bleak color scheme. Cipher gave Stanley a tap on the head with his cane before he flew to the cabinet, a drawer snapping open without command.

“Let’s see… Palmer, Phelps, Stan _ford_ Pines, and bingo!” The demon heaved the file with his stubby black fingers, the contents dipping like an accordion. Bill cipher cracked it open, stared at it for a few thoughtful seconds, and then shut it. His eye grew teeth, sharp and nicked, before shoving the paperwork into the new mouth. The distinctive sound of a gulp resounded before he turned back to the boxer.

“It says here you made a deal over the man named Fiddleford McGucket.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I assume you want his scrambled memory back? Good thing for you I kept a back-up drive! Oh,” he slapped a hand against his forehead, “my bad, it’s ’85! It’s kind of hard to get the hang of viewing time in every way imaginable.”

The image of a brain projected from his singular eye as he continued on, “It appears the old me took every new memory, and all the old memories forged past the night you made the deal, and kept a separate copy of it all combined into one. Genius, I know! No need to thank me, but you may grovel if you like!”

“You can give it back to him, right? His memories?”

“Of course, kid, what do you take me for? But first,” the golden triangle flashed red, “we need to discuss a method of **payment**.” One by one, the blocks making up the demon’s form flipped, color changing to scarlet.

“You said **anything**.”

The boxer backed away, back hitting the wall as Bill Cipher closed in. His heart pounded against his rib cage in a last ditch attempt to save itself the same fate of the man it inhabited. Stanley knew it had been foolish to offer the demon anything he had wanted, but at the time he had been desperate, and willing to give whatever it took.

After they had restarted the portal, and Fiddleford had remembered, he had considered running. He and the engineer could hit the road, maybe even Ford if they could wait around long enough. But now it was too late.

The con man found himself on the other side of a rotten deal.

\--

By the time Stanley had caught a bus back to the hospital, it was dark. The dim lights from inside, and the even more luminescent glow from the stars guided his path. The boxer couldn’t keep the grin off his face, a spring in his step as he hustled along the sidewalk.

The Shapeshifter was long gone, the portal was dismantled, and Bill Cipher has been neutralized for the moment; nothing stood in their way. He was going to fix things, once and for all.

He paused at an astray mere feet from the doors to put out the victory cigarette he was puffing on. The boxer caught sight of the dull figure on the bench adjacent.

“Ford?”

It was not uncommon to find the man out for a smoke break; Fiddleford usually fell asleep around midnight, and it was well past that.

Stanford jumped at the voice. His mouth opened in shock, the cigarette tumbling from his lips and onto the ground. It sizzled, the orange sparks slowly dying.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The man held himself stiffly, arms like pistons at his sides. The scientist gulped. His eyes betrayed him, shock fading to sympathy.

“Stanley…”

Before the word was out of his mouth, the boxer’s head snapped up towards the rows upon rows of windows. He locked onto what he knew to be Fiddleford’s: the only one alight in the sea of blackness.

Stanley gave Ford a panicked look and bolted through the doors.

“Stanley, wait!”

The boxer shot down the hallways, pushing through the automatic doors in impatience, shoving aside every person who fell onto his path. Ignoring the painful ache of the stitch in his side, Stanley sprinted past the nurse’s station and up the stairs. His muddy shoes squeaked as the boxer skidded to a stop, spotting the nurse keeping guard outside the engineer’s room.

His legs faltered, his heart stopping altogether at the very embodiment of the harbinger of death outside Fiddleford’s door. Steadying himself, the boxer took a deep breath and marched forward to demand information.

His plan was cut short, however, when a six-fingered hand grabbed the hood of his coat and tugged him backwards. Stanford pulled his struggling brother around a corner, out of sight of the nurse.

“Stan, hold on! You can’t go in there.”

“Why not?” The boxer hissed, turning to his brother. He shook him off, but remained with the other man, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

“Fiddleford regained his ability to speak.”

The boxer practically glowed, all trace of worry gone from his face, “Really? That’s great!”

“That’s not…” The scientist bit his lip, exhaling slowly through his nose, “They said he was having an ‘episode’. He just suddenly couldn’t remember where he was or who anyone was and… and it wasn’t pretty, Lee.”

The scientist had never seen someone go from ecstatic to distress so quickly. Stanley felt all warmth drained from his body.

“B-but he… I-I…”

Stanley floundered for words. No, no, he couldn’t have been too late. There was still a chance.

“I need to get in there.”

“They aren’t letting anyone in for the next few days in case he has another meltdown.” Stanford explained, a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Ford, I _have_ to get to him, you don’t understand!. I know how to fix this. I can save him.”

“Stanley, you can’t—”

“Don’t say I can’t save him! You were the one telling me not to give up in the first place.” The boxer insisted, his whisper becoming more of a plea. “It’s my last chance. Please, Ford, you gotta trust me.”

The scientist looked conflicted, his brows furrowing as he searched his twin’s face for any sign of a lie. With a groan, he took a step back and rubbed his weary eyes.

“Oh, alright. Fine, but just this once. You have one chance at this.”

Stanley’s shoulder’s sagged in relief, “All I need is one chance. But,” he peeked around the corner at the unsuspecting woman guarding the door, “I’m gonna need you to be a distraction. Think you can handle it?”

Stanford looked more upset with this plan by the moment. He deadpanned, looking to the nurse before giving his brother an incredulous look.

“What do I do?”

“I don’t know, just go out there and do something!” The boxer pushed Ford from the hiding spot. Stanford stumbled forward, directly into the line of sight of the woman before the door. He gave an awkward laugh, picking at his shirt collar before approaching her.

It wasn’t long before Stanley heard the unmistakable sound of an angry huff of breath and a slap before the sound of heels clicking away against the tiled floors. He glanced around the corner; Ford shot him a thumbs up, fixing his skewed glasses before touching the red handprint blooming on his cheek.

Stanley made for the door, Stanford grabbing his arm at the last moment. The scientist avoided eye contact, staring at the floor as he muttered, “Don’t do anything stupid, Lee.”

“No promises.”

He turned the silver door knob and slid inside, quickly shutting the door behind him.

His first step he found much too loud, the sole snapping against the sterilized floor was deafening. Stanley continued much quieter, keeping a lookout for the engineer. He wasn’t in his usual spot, leaned back in the chair against the corner, looking out the window.

His eyes focused on the bed, and the man on top of it: Fiddleford’s face was pressed into his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, curled into an upright ball.

Stanley cleared his throat, giving the man a warning.

Fiddleford’s head jerked up, retreating back against the headboard. The boxer halted, holding his palm up to display he was harmless.

“It’s just me,” he tried, hoping that the engineer had recovered from the ‘episode’, that he remembered him at least. “I’m just here to talk.”

The man glanced over the boxer, then to the door behind him before letting down his defenses.

“Stanley?” The sound of his name in the engineer’s quiet voice was usually like a moment of solace in a hurricane. But the man sounded unsure, distressed. The boxer took a step closer, then when the engineer didn’t react poorly, another. It wasn’t until he was at Fiddleford’s bedside that he noticed the man’s red rimmed eyes.

“I’m here,” was all he could manage, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Bit by bit, the engineer came out of his shell, nudging himself closer to the boxer.

“I see you found your voice again. Now you can finally tell me to shut up.”

Fiddleford cracked a small smile to humor the boxer more than anything else. But the man didn’t respond, only stared pensively at his bed sheets. He bit down on his lip to keep it from trembling, sucking in a shaky breath when he felt on the verge of tears.

He didn’t know what gave him away, but Stanley leaned closer to the engineer, quietly murmuring, “Fidds…”

Throat closing up, the next breath Fiddleford took came out as a stuttering sob. When the boxer’s arms fell around him for comfort, he didn’t argue, rather he threw himself into the hug. The engineer buried his face into the man’s shoulder, fighting back the tears.

“I hate it!” The engineer said suddenly, leaning back so the man’s coat didn’t muffle his words, “I hate forgetting! All I ever do is forget and forget and I’m so tired of it. Every time I get a little bit closer to remembering you, to remembering who I was before, it all vanishes.”

Fiddleford wiped the tear track from his cheek with a palm, “I just want to remember again. I don’t want to forget anymore. I want to be normal again.”

“We were never normal, Fidds.” He tilted the engineer’s chin up to look him in the eye, “Not even for a second.”

“Then I want us _to be_ normal! I want to be able to leave this terrible place, I want to stop being a burden to everyone I care about, I want to see my son…” he broke off the list before it could trail on any further, giving a pitiful sniffle.

“I just want to remember again.”

Stanley took a deep breath, preparing himself for what might follow.

“Fidds, I’m back in this dump early because I think I can help. Not just with pictures this time.” He paused to let the notion sink in, “I think I can get your memory back. All of it.”

“What? Really?!” The engineer’s eyes gained their luster again.

“Really.”

Fiddleford stopped, eyebrows furrowing, “Stanley Pines, if this is some elaborate joke I will—”

“I’m not lying! Okay, I know I say that a lot, but I wouldn’t be so low to joke about this kind of thing.”

He sat back, searching the man’s face closely. Fiddleford gave a short laugh of excitement, his lined face relaxing in relief. He shook his head in wonder, drawing his hands back from behind the boxer’s neck to rest on his shoulders.

“How?”

“Does it matter?” Stanley asked with his own breathless giddiness, “Who cares? You’re gonna have you memories back. I mean, if you want to, that is.”

“If I--? Of course I do!”

The boxer suddenly felt his heart weigh heavily against his ribs. His smile tugged downwards.

“Fidds, I need to come clean with you. Our lives haven’t always been… The happiest. Hell, before anything ‘serious’ went down, you about drove yourself crazy trying to get us out of trouble in our monster hunts. And after the whole fiasco with Bill you… Well, you erased your memories on purpose.”

“And you didn’t just do this once, you did it excessively. You said the memories were killing you and that you didn’t want to live with them anymore. If- If I give you your past back, you can’t just take the good, Fidds. Do you see what I’m saying? You gotta make a choice.”

The engineer grew quiet, his hands folded together in thought. The room suddenly became unbearably silent, all but the continuous ticking from a clock on the wall. But he had to tell him, he couldn’t just let Fiddleford blindly jump in and find his loss of ignorance and innocence jarring.

“I want it.” Fiddleford said suddenly, his gaze intense, “I want the good and the bad, I want all of it. I want to be Fiddleford McGucket again, no matter how bad of a life I lived. It couldn’t be all that terrible; I seemed pretty important to you and your brother.”

“Are you sure? There’s no going back.”

“Absolutely.”

Stanley sighed, not realizing he had been holding his breath the entire time.

“Okay,” he took the engineer’s hands in his own, “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes.”

Fiddleford flashed his an amused smile, questioning his logic, but still following along. The green eyes behind the spectacles closed.

Stanley repeated the chant, the same he had used to summon Bill in the attic. It was their code now, a tool for fast communication. The demon felt a sharp tug and knew what was in store.

There was no snazzy entrance like last time, no fire, no maniacal cackling, only the small voice in his head he recognized as something other than his own. The boxer couldn’t help but wonder if this was what his brother had experienced as well.

“Ugh, finally! You two sure take your sweet time. I don’t see why we couldn’t have done this long range from the Shack and gotten it over with!”

 _“Because I had to make sure,”_ the boxer thought in response, knowing Bill could hear even inside his head. _“Now, if you’re so eager to finish it hurry up.”_

“Fine. Oh, I suppose I should tell you this will probably hurt. A lot.”

_“What? You didn’t mention that before!”_

“I didn’t think you would get so worked up over another human’s feelings. Yeesh, you meat sacks really are fragile!” He heard the demon sigh, “I suppose you could distract him, isn’t that what you people do to numb the pain of injections? Make him focus on something other than the all mighty demon bashing him over the skull with a life time of memories.”

_“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”_

He paused, taking in the man before him and his unguarded expression. His eyes were shut behind his glasses, not in a tight and frightened way, rather like how one might draw curtains over a window. His mouth curved up at the corners, parted slightly.

“Stanley?” The engineer questioned when there was a lull in noise.

“I’m still here. I just,” he leaned forward, unable to complete the sentence as his fingers grazed Fiddleford’s cheek. The man flinched at his touch, the boxer’s heart skipping in his chest.

“Don’t be scared.”

The engineer could sense their proximity with how close the words were uttered, the boxer’s breath ghosting over his lips. His smile melted into something more heartfelt.

“I’m not.”

Stanley’s lips brushed against Fiddleford’s, the contact warm and soft, though brief. Stanley moved to pull away to gauge his response, ready for the man’s eyes to snap open in surprise.

Fiddleford quietly touched a hand to his lips, something akin to wonder spreading across his face. Before he knew what was happening, Stanley was being pulled back down.

The engineer sighed into the kiss, reciprocating the slow pace, and everything about it seemed _right_. Of all the pieces of him that had been lost, this was one that was finally fitting back together. Snaking his hands into the boxer’s hair, the blond’s fingertips skimmed the sensitive nape of his neck; the man shivered. Stanley believed very surely in the fact this was the best idea for a diversion he had ever had. The boxer’s hands weighed on the engineer’s hips, palms both the anchor and the storm.

“I don’t know what you two are doing with your mouths, but frankly, I find it disturbing.”

Stanley lifted his hand from the engineer’s waist to flip off the dream demon.

“Geez, fine! I’ll get to it then.” Bill grumbled.

The boxer felt something sever, not physically, but the metaphysical. The demon pulled free from his mind, a sense of lightness settling over his head. Then, all at once, there was a gush of wind, a faint chant carried on its invisible wings.

Fiddleford broke from the kiss with a gasp. His body tensed, still as a statue. Stanley’s eyes flicked from the engineer’s pained expression, to the demon above him, black digits pressed on either side of his skull.

The man’s glazed eyes lit up in a snap of electricity, glowing a haunting hue of cyan to match Bill Cipher’s own radiance.  Beams of blue light cut through the dim lighting the way a lighthouse cut through the clouded sea. And, much in the same way a boat is drawn to the beacon, the boxer drew closer to Fiddleford. The demon’s eye flickered, pupil replaced with an oncoming stream of numbers, symbols, quick flashes of words and coding even Stanley didn’t recognize.

Then, all at once, it ceased.

Bill pried his hands from the engineer’s head; Fiddleford fell limp in Stan’s arms.

Stanley gently shook the man. No response.

“What… What did you _do?_ ”

“I told you it would be overwhelming. In order to transfer the memories I had to channel my powers through his physical form. It was probably excruciating!”

“You didn’t say he would get hurt--!” The boxer’s growl was cut off by the Bill’s nasally laugh.

“What, like that would have stopped you anyways? This was your final chance to fix things! If he would have suffered would you have just decided not to return the memories?” At the man’s furious silence, he continued with a scoff, “He should wake back up soon, his body just needs time to rest from exerting that amount of energy.”

“So… He’ll remember? He’s okay?”

“Sure! As long as you keep your part of the deal, I won’t lay a finger on him. Until then,” the demon tipped his top hat to the boxer, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“I’ll be waiting!”

\--

The engineer woke up to the sound of voices arguing.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Lee, don’t leave me in the dark. At least let me know _how_. If you made some scientific breakthrough—”

“Do you always have science junk on that big brain of yours? And no, it wasn’t anything like that, just a gut feeling and some risks is all.”

“Did you find a way to rewire the memory gun and reverse the polarity so when you typed in Fiddleford’s name it gave back everything he had ever taken away?”

“Psh, you think I can do that? No, that’s not it.”

“Did you round up the monsters of Gravity Falls that are more friendly to us and find a reversal spell?”

“Nah.”

“Did you track down the Society of the Blindeye and force them to give you information?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hit me over the head with a brick,” the engineer interjected, rubbing his tender head as he sat upright in the hospital bed, “because that what it _feels_ like you did.”

The twins beamed in unison, rushing in from both sides of the bed to give the man a tight hug. It was only when they heard his strangled plea, “Okay, you can let go now, you’re choking me,” did they cease. And even then, it was rather reluctantly.

The twins took a step back, eyes wide in the unspoken question.

Fiddleford closed the eyes, testing the waters.

“You’re Stanford Pines,” he started slowly, motioned to the scientist, “you were my old college roommate, you get overly invested in fantasy games, you love any and every anomaly, _especially_ if it’s trying to burn our face off, and you find sleeping a waste of time.”

His smile grew wider as he rattled off the details, the scientist giving a small nod at each that fit his description. Fiddleford hadn’t got a single one wrong.

The engineer then turned towards Stanley, the man practically bouncing like an excited puppy, “You…”

He trailed off, letting out a quiet huff of laughter, “You’re something else.”

Once again he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug, this time dragged off the bed entirely. The boxer gave a short, barking laugh of triumph, hoisting the man in the air as he leaned back. When Fiddleford’s feet hit the ground again, Stanford cleared his throat loud enough to gain their attention.

“Yes, this is all very good, but we should continue this celebration at home,” he glanced warily to the door as he straightened his glasses. “We really need to leave.”

“Why?” Fiddleford asked as he glanced between the two twins. The heat that had crept into his face during the embrace was slowly fading.

“Well, uh… You see…” Stanley muttered, clasping his hands together sheepishly, “We told them that we’d put your tab on our insurance. But we don’t have insurance, I mean who needs to pay for something as lame as that?”

“And it’s impractical.” Ford butted in.

“So we’re pulling the ol’ dine-and-dash.”

“We’re doing what?!”

“It’s not a big deal! We got the Stanleymobile running in the parking lot, so now it’s just a matter of sneaking past all the nurses who know your face.” Stanley explained, his grin growing wider at the thrill of getting away cleanly.

“And we also brought these,” at Ford’s words the two unpocketed a number of smoke-bombs they had stored away. Fiddleford gawked at the white spheres, knowing exactly what they were capable of.

With a sigh, and a grim expression, the engineer took a smoke-bomb.

“You two are going to get us all caught some day.”

“And you’ll love every minute of it.” Stanley pressed a quick kiss to the man’s forehead.

“So, uh… Mystery Trio?” The scientist asked, one hand against the door.

“Mystery trio!” The other two responded in unison.

“I thought you hated that name, Fidds?”

“You know,” a grin spreading across his features as he stared at the other two, “it’s starting to grow on me.”

\--

Even breaths of warm air tickled over the boxer’s bare chest as he began to stir. He blinked away the bleary coating on his eyes; the world shifted into focus. The first thing he noticed was that it was _warm_ , captivatingly so. The corners of his mouth pulled upwards drowsily as he tested his arms, finding them wrapped around the source of the comforting heat.

Stanley had eased himself into the fact he would no longer be sleeping alone. There were still times of fear, when he would awake in a panic at the notion that he was by himself again, but the man curled around him always shook the thought from his skull. The days of him sleeping cold and solitary were gone.

He pulled Fiddleford closer, the man mumbling something sleepily before nuzzling his cheek back into Stanley’s shoulder.

Soft _and_ warm. How could he possibly say no to a combination like that?

Stanley shut his eyes again, ready to snuggle back down against his pillow.

“Wake _uuuuup!_ ” A voice sing-songed. With a small groan, he ignored it, opting instead to pull the covers up higher. Only there weren’t covers anymore, or even a bed.

“ **Wake up.** ”

The boxer froze, flexing his arms.

Fiddleford was gone.

His eyes shot open. With a strangled cry, he bolted upwards.

It was not his room, but a field. Long, gray strands of grass reached up towards an empty sky. Chest still heaving, he rubbed his eyes. When his surroundings didn’t turn out to be a vivid hallucination, he tried harder. The ground below him was rigid, not soft. The wind was biting, not warm and comforting.

“Wow, your dreamscape sure is picky! Every time I come here it’s something different.”

Stanley _knew_ that voice, all too ecstatic and all too loud. He bit back a curse, digging his nails into his arm in a desperate attempt to rose himself back awake. No, he couldn’t do this. Not yet, he need more time, anything—

Bill Cipher rose from the swaying strands, looking delighted to crush the hopes of the man before him.

It was time to pay his debts.

“Bill, wait,” his scrambled backwards for distance, his voice breaking at the plea, “I need more time. Listen, if you could just—”

“ **I’m through with waiting, Pines**.” The demon’s voice boomed. The sky became alight with lightning, sharp and blue, bursting through the cold air. “I already gave you an extension out of the own goodness of my metaphorical heart. I could have just let him regain his memories without you there to see it yourself.”

Stanley gulped.

“You got what you wanted, kid. Now it’s my turn. And, thanks to you, I’ve had some extra time to think it over!”

“You want a vessel, don’t ya?” The boxer questioned hesitantly.

The gears in his head began to turn. There had to be something, there was always some way for him to weasel himself out of these situations, if he could only think.

“Lucky guess! You can’t even fathom how frustrating it is, being omnipotent but unable to recount your past. I’ve been trapped watching you pitiful mortals suck in oxygen for the last three weeks because I’m not sure which dimension I belong to. It’s driving me insane! Well, _more_ insane! All I know about myself is that I make deals and I have the uncontrollably urge to destroy and party. And, with your body, I could finally accomplish that!”

Stanley blinked; it finally fit together. How could he not have realized it before? The answer had been sitting right under his nose the entire time!

“Oh no,” Stanley feigned fear, “not my delicate, fragile human body!” He looked solemn for a moment, as if in mourning, before continuing, “Well, I guess it could be worse.”

“What? How so?” The demon shrank, leaning in closer.

Bingo.

“Well, you could’ve made me give you back all of your memories! Then you could conquer the world in your own, powerful form instead of my flabbier one. You’d be practically unstoppable! You would know which dimension is yours, and fully remember all of your powers. I’m just glad you picked this route instead!”

If Bill Cipher had a mouth, it would have frowned. Hs eye squinted in thought, hands rested on his hips. In one quick motion, he pulled his hat from the top of his head and began to brush it off.

“You can give me my memories back?”

“Oh, of course! That’s what the memory gun Fidds built was for, remember? After he forgot, he built it to bring back his original memories. I don’t know about how all that brain stuff works, but it could work on you too.”

“I… I think I do remember that…” The demon trailed off.

Hook, line, and--

“ **Wait a second!** ” He roared, tripling in size as the field erupted in blue flames. “Do you take me for a **fool?!** Why would you ask for my help in bringing your precious engineer’s mind back if you could do it all along with a gun?”

“B-B-Because,” Stanley stuttered as the fire encircled him, trying to keep his guise up, “because you told us it was dangerous. Fiddleford used it so much that it hurt his brain, but you—you’ve only used it once! It could bring back everything.”

The inferno died down into a low sizzle, no higher than the boxer’s ankles. Cipher looked conflicted. With an exasperated screech he turned away, black hands pressed against his head.

Stanley held his breath. It was working, he was playing the vagueness of the demon’s memories against him, putting his own words in Bill Cipher’s mouth and making it seem brilliant. He was pulling the ultimate con.

“I’ve come to a decision.” The demon growled. His mindscape dimmed to black, until it was only Bill and the boxer in a void.

“You are going to give me my memory back in exchange for my earlier favor.”

He turned on the waterworks, channeling the almost melodramatic tone from the multitude of soap operas he had watched.

“What?! No, please, you can’t!”

“Sorry, no take-backs! You have to do whatever I say, remember!”

“Ugh, how could I let you know about this? I’m the biggest idiot on Earth!”

“You really are, kid.” The demon’s eye sprouted teeth, fitting together in a wolfish grin until it engulfed the horizon. He laughed, the cackle piercing the air and growing in intensity until the boxer’s ears ached.

 He fell to his knees as the teeth leaned down to consume him too.

\--

Stanley blinked awake again. This time he was in his bed, the engineer coiled tightly around his frame. The warmth had turned to sticky, intolerable humidity. That had been no nightmare, but a reality.

“Showtime!” The voice in his mind called, his vision flashing white. He swore under his breath, pressing a hand to his pained temple.

With a sigh, he untangled himself from the smaller man, letting his eyes linger just a bit too long on Fiddleford’s sleeping form. The man finally looked happy.

“Just remember, I can take it all away.” Bill Cipher hissed in his head, words curling in glee, “So carry out our deal and no one will get hurt.”

The boxer trudged downstairs, for the first time aware of each little movement of his body; of his heels against the chilled stairs, palm sliding against the rail. His journey was either a victory tour, or a death march.

If Bill Cipher saw through his plans, he was doomed.

“Hurry it up!”

“I’m goin’,” he muttered aloud. Stanley grimaced. Would those be his last words? They didn’t seem as noble as he had been hoping for.

The boxer reached the living room, wood floors turning into carpet. He wasted no time approaching the stone wall, carefully tapping his knuckled until he reached the echoed thump of the hollowed block. Stanley’s fingers found the hinge and pulled it open.

Inside awaited the memory gun, its brass handle gleaming in the moonlight. The red glass reflected his own expression: solemn, resigned.

He hadn’t touched it since he had last pulled the trigger.

Now the gun burned in his hand.

“Alright, let’s get this over with!”

“Wait…” Stanley started before clearing his throat, “I can’t just fire it at you while you’re in my head. You’ll need another vessel for this to work.”

“Why did you leave that part out earlier?!”

“I-I didn’t think about it!”

It was true. Stanley didn’t think he would even get this far.

He needed to find something for Bill Cipher to embody, and quick, or he might being running a suicide mission. Stanley’s eyes scoured the room in search of anything—

The boxer locked eyes with the fish tank. As if his wish had been granted, a pink salamander—an axolotl, Ford had called it—rose from the watery depths. It practically smiled at him, flashing its coral-like cheeks.

Bill seemed to hone in on it too. In a moment’s notice Stanley felt that familiar tug, the demon detaching himself from the boxer’s skull.

The axolotl froze, it’s tiny, rosy tail stopped twitching. For a moment it sank, grin faltering and its black eyes becoming blank. Then it shot forward, tapping against the glass in the boxer’s direction. The tanks shook, water splashing to the ground.

He felt a twang of guilt for the creature. It would no longer remember itself, and would be kicked out its body indefinitely. But it was the only way. Trapping their greatest foe in a harmless salamander seemed a fitting enough fate for all the trouble the demon had caused.

Stanley raised the gun, typing in the same name he had week ago: Bill Cipher.

His finger fell into place.

He locked eyes with the infinite darkness of the dream demon’s own. And for a second, he thought he recognized a brief flash of panic.

“Don’t you _ever_ mess with my family again.”

Stanley pulled the trigger.

The axolotl was held in the beam for a moment, legs splayed out and mouth gaping open. Then, all at once, the waters were clear again. The salamander floated aimlessly for only a second, before becoming scared of the man towering before his tank. He cowered back into the aquarium rocks, taking Bill Cipher along with him.

The demon was gone, for good this time, trapped in a prison of his own making.

The gun fell willing from his hands, tumbling to the carpeted floor below. Stanley brought his foot up, glaring down at the invention that had no power over them anymore, and slammed the sole of his shoe into memory gun.

The gun shattered.

It was over.

Fiddleford was waiting for him when he climbed the stairs. The engineer leaned against the headboard, covering his mouth as he yawned.

“Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Is everythin’ okay? I thought I heard somethin’?”

Stanley pulled the man close as he slipped into their bed, burying his face into the crook of the other’s neck.

“It was just a nightmare. But it’s all over now.”

\--

_Epilogue:_

Spring had turned to summer, then to autumn, and once again to winter. The cycle had repeated itself without even the slightest hiccup for 30 years. Now, the seasons had changed to summer again. The heat was sweltering, but a welcome change. The blissful warmth pushed out what had been left of the cold previous months. The air was fragrant, the faint breeze carrying the scent of what Ford referred to as “Myosotis sylvatica”, their soft blue petals dotting the edges of the forest.

Two men stood by the red Diablo, one pushing their luggage into the car’s trunk, and the other looking up, face turned skyward as he admired the clear cerulean.

Not a cloud in sight.

“Do you have everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Shirts?”

“Yep.”

“Socks?”

“Yeeees.”

“Sunscreen--?”

“Fidds, I got everything. Quit worrying so much.” The man straightened up and shut the trunk. He leaned against his convertible, taking a moment to let his eyes wander over the other’s face while he was lost in thought.

Over the years, blond had faded to grey, and then to white. It was no different than the changing seasons, just time running its course. And even if Fiddleford was sensitive about the tuff of white on top of his head, or the freckles doting his face from the summer sun, Stanley loved every part of it. And even he himself, the boxer, hadn’t been left untouched by the years. His family turned grey early, his hair and enduring stubble both suffering from the effects.

Fiddleford blinked, quirking an eyebrow at his observer. The boxer simply slipped an arm around his waist.

“You gotta stop being so nervous ‘bout everything. It’s called a vacation for a reason, I know it’s been a while since we’ve had one, but you’re not supposed to spend the whole time worried sick.”

The engineer took a deep breath, allowing himself to relax. He gave a small nod.

“Well, at least it’s a nice day for us to set off. Tate said it's supposed to stay clear all this week.”

“Yeah, and hot too. I can’t believe you’re still wearin’ that sweater Mabel made for you.” With his free hand, Stanley gestured to the gaudy purple turtleneck. It was fluffy to say the least, embroidered with pictures of the engineer’s favorite animal: cats.

“Oh please, don’t pretend you didn’t pack your sweaters too. I saw that big pink one sticking out of your suitcase.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Admit it, you’re going to miss those kids just as much as I am.”

“Wait,” the boxer’s smile grew smugger, “is that what you’ve been worried so much about? Leaving those kids while we go away? They got Ford watchin’ ‘em!”

“That’s the part I’m so anxious about,” the engineer implored. “Last week he gave Dipper a magnet gun and said ‘go nuts’!”

“Look, Ford is just a precaution. We have Soos lookin’ after ‘em too! There’s no reason to freak out, Fidds.” He pressed a quick kiss to the man’s temple before throwing open the car door, “Besides, I made them swear to no more supernatural junk so—”

“What the…?”

He paused mid-sentence, taken aback by the sudden lumpiness of the blanket in the backseat. He blinked, telling himself he was imagining things as one moved. Wait a second, he didn’t even remember putting a blanket in the backseat.

Stanley exchanged a glance with the man at his side, the two deciding quietly the perpetrators were “probably gnomes”, before the boxer yanked off the blanket.

Four pairs of eyes and two, chubby, 12 year-old faces looked up at him in shock.

“Oh! Hey Grunkle Stan, we were just… ha, you know, checking out the car for you and Grunkle Fiddleford’s trip!” Dipper improvised, flashing an unconvincing smile. Stanley snorted; he should’ve taught the kid how to lie correctly by now. He was doing it all wrong!

“Out you two little gremlins.” He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. The boxer’s face appeared stolid, but Fiddleford knew that he was just as amused on the inside as himself.

“Mabel, I told you they would find out!”

“Who looks under an inconspicuous blanket before they drive away?!” The girl balled up the sheet around her small frame, flashing puppy-dog eyes their Grunkle’s way. Fiddleford gave a small smile, kneeling down to get on level with the young twins.

“Now, why in the world were you trying to hitch-hike with us?”

“Because road trip!” Mabel practically screamed in excitement, throwing her hands into the air, “Road trips are always filled with adventure, and _romance_ \--!”

“Plus we could log all of the exciting and new things we find!” Dipper procured a notepad from his vest pocket, flipping through the pages wildly. “Just think of all the amazing sights we could see along the road.”

“And lots of scrapbook-ortunities!”

The door to the Shack was suddenly kicked open, the screen smacking against the outside wall. Ford emerged, brandishing a gun as he stepped into the light.

“Have you seen the kids anywhere? I haven’t lost them, of course, but they aren’t in the Shack.” He glanced around the clearing nervously. Stanford had grown grey as well, but in a darker shade than his twin besides the stripe of white above his ears.

“We left them alone with him,” Fiddleford whispered, “and he already lost them in five minutes. We haven’t even _pulled out of the driveway!_ ”

“I know,” he muttered quietly to the man at his side, before calling louder to his brother, “I got ‘em, Poindexter. We had two stowaways.”

The scientist let out a sigh of relief, holstering the laser gun back against his hip.

“We wanted to bring Great Uncle Ford too, but he wouldn’t have fit under the blanket.” Dipper said, his sister nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, just think about how much fun this road trip would be with the whole family!” Mabel clasped her hands together as if the very scene made her heart soar.

“Kids,” Stanford had made his way to the car, trench coat moving in the breeze behind him, “why are you two in there?”

Stanley sighed, running a hand along his face at the chaos. As his brother and the younger twins played out the same conversation he had heard moments before, a hand tugged on his arm. Fiddleford pulled him aside, away from the chatter at the Diablo.

“So? What do you think?” Fiddleford started slowly, glancing back as he heard laughter before focusing on the man in front of him again.

“Think about what?” The boxer gripped. He crossed his arms, scowling.

“You know…” Fiddleford tested the waters coyly, “About letting the kids come along or the ride.”

“What?! Since when was that the plan?”

“It wasn’t. But, I mean, they seemed pretty eager to come with us. Would it be all that much trouble just to have them vacation with us?” He pressed his palms against Stanley’s chest, dragging them up to rest on his shoulders as he flashed the other a pleading expression.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’, Fidds.” He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile at the engineer. “I _taught you_ how to pull a fast one with that look.”

“Is it working?”

“Mhmm, maybe just a bit.” He pulled Fiddleford closer. “But wasn’t the whole reason we were going off on this trip was to get away from everyone?”

“Family is fun,” Fiddleford shrugged his shoulders, “especially those two rascals. Would it be so bad to bring everyone along?”

“Oh, gross! They’re doing that sappy old man stuff again!” Dipper’s voice pierced through their conversation. Laughing, Fiddleford pressed his face against the boxer’s shoulder to hush himself.  

“Imagine spending thirty years with this,” Ford mumbled back.

“Don’t interrupt them! I think it’s adorable.” Mabel called loud enough for them to hear, perched against the backseat as she looked out the window.

“See?” Fiddleford said as he leaned back again, “How could you ever want to get away from this?”

Stanley felt his resolve slowly fade. He looked on as the twins playfully shoved each other, reminded of him and his own brother. Ford stood above them with a wistful grin, ready to break it apart before one of them got actually hurt. And then there was the engineer pressed against him, looking onto the scene with warmth in his eyes, before giving the boxer the same heartfelt look.

“Okay,” Stanley grumbled, “fine. But they get a separate hotel room from ours. And don’t think I won’t pickpocket Ford to pay for it.”

“Deal.”

“Alright,” He cupped a hand to his mouth as he called to his family, “everyone pile in. You too, Ford. We’re goin’ on a family road trip after all!”

Cheers went up from inside the Diablo, the children already calling their seats.

The two hung back in the summer shade of a pine tree, watching the scene fondly. Stanley felt a hand slip into his own, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Gently, he returned the gesture.

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Let’s do it.”

The two walked in step across the grass, their linked arms swinging slightly as they made their way for the car. Fiddleford closed his eyes and smiled against the breeze. The memories of his past, the good and the bad, were both firm in his mind. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was time to start a new adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to give a huge thanks to those of you who have been there for me since they beginning, and to those of you who have given me kudos and comments and kept me going; this story would have remained an incomplete draft in the depths of my computer without you folks! 
> 
> It's time to finally put this little story to rest, but don't worry, I'm sure I'll come back to this universe someday. Until then, I will most likely continue to write Gravity Falls works, because I am just that deep in the fandom. So this isn't the last you'll ever hear from me!
> 
> Once again, thank you all for making this stupid little fic a reality.


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